


Medhel An Gwyns

by Phantomwriter05



Series: Detective Stories [1]
Category: Downton Abbey, Dracula (TV 2013), The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 1930's-1940's Action & Adventure Serial, Allan Quartermain - Freeform, Atlantis Myth, But loves them grudgingly, Disfunctionally Toxic Mother and Son, Evil Cults from Pre-History, Evil Tribal Masks, Heavy Angst, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen - Freeform, Mina Murray - Freeform, Past Child Death, Post Series AU, Post-Movie, Professor Moriarty - Freeform, Pulp Adventure, Pulp Cover Art Imagery, References to Dracula (2013), References to J.R.R. Tolkien's Universe being pre-history, Reincarnation, Sassy Old Lady who loathes everyone she ever created, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes are real events in this Universe, The Fall of Númenor, The Necromancer - Freeform, captain nemo - Freeform, sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 77,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomwriter05/pseuds/Phantomwriter05
Summary: PRELUDE - On her last visit to Downton Abbey, Martha Levinson broods over her many disappointments with her "soft" and "Ingrate" children and descendants. But just when giving up all hope for the future, she suddenly finds herself party to the capture of the Earl of Warren, the robbing of the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and many other stranger intrigues of a dashingly young and valiant adventurer on a crusade to unravel the perplexing mystery of a reincarnating princess tied to the very roots of the House of Grantham.
Relationships: Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley, Edith Crawley/Bertie Pelham, George Crawley & Marigold Crawley, George Crawley & Mary Crawley, Sybbie Branson & George Crawley, Tom Branson/Lucy Smith
Series: Detective Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683829
Kudos: 1





	1. Part I

_So, this was supposed to be a "cold opening" to something else I was working, but it got_ _**way** _ _too long and took a life of its own. So, I finished it up and decided, rather than scrap it, to split it up and post it as a two-shot rather than post the 30K word behemoth in one go._

In the grey of the afternoon it wasn't hard to imagine the absolute feeling that there was an abject failure of pure genetics. The red room, with numerous rows of dusty books that held a sum collection of the most useless of knowledge, seemed to be a parable for the entire frivolous exercise in its entirety. It was a bitter realization that most wisdom does not come to someone till much later in life, when all their mistakes are held in retrospect. Fore, perhaps, the largest she had ever made was that she put pride before practicality. And now it seemed a waste, all of it, the lessons, the tutors, the way of raising the loveliest and most beautiful of dummies that there had ever been like a princess. It only occurred to her now, in the evening tide of life that perhaps it was all a waste.

That Martha Levinson's entire legacy was simply a waste.

She didn't voice these dreary thoughts, because, well, Cora seemed happy enough. Though, since her dummy married that idiot, she rather always seemed happy. The old woman felt like a bad mother, because, she was sure most mothers would've been happy that their daughter was happy, yet, Martha couldn't help but feel sometimes like strangling Cora … nobody is that happy all the time. But then maybe that was her fault on both accounts. It came from years of teaching her little girl never to give into temper, to never let 'them' see you sweat. She was always pleasant, lovely in sight, and amenable. But then she was always that way now, even to her, and that bothered Martha most. She was the woman's mother for Christ's sake, and yet she revealed nothing to her, not even her own mind. She treated her much the stranger, like she was some spy for an invading force trying to figure out their weaknesses. The awful truth that frustrated Martha so much was that after fifty years, she didn't know Cora anymore. She could blame the distance, the years of not seeing each other after the girls became grown. But in truth, she blamed this place, these people … and herself.

All those long years ago she had to have a title and cornet for her prize beauty. Nowhere, in any part of New York Society, was there a more beautiful girl than her Cora. And maybe it was Martha's goddamn Vicksburg Barksdale blood in her, the need to be the talk of the whole damn state with her prized calf, that made her so damn competitive. In all, she wanted the prized beauty, the aristocratic title, and the social points for it, because Martha Levinson was a winner. She was the queen of all she surveyed wherever she went in life, and she would never settle for second best. But damnit if Cora wasn't in love, and goddamn it if that Van Houten witch wasn't spreading rumors about her girl's immaturity. She wished to God that she had found a way to break Cora's unnatural fascination and habit of playing with toys. Had Martha not been so short tempered, had her husband not been so wrapped around Cora's little finger, she could've told her no. She could've told her spoiled, sweet, beautiful dummy not Robert Crawley, not the House of Grantham, and never Downton Abbey. But the rumors, Cora's endless temper tantrums, and those goddamn dollies.

It was out of her hands by the time it got to them.

But perhaps it was simply that she should've said no to the whole venture all together, of chasing titles in England. Not when there were hundreds of boys in their own country over which would've been better suited. She didn't dislike Robert. He was an idiot, he was fancy, and as over sophisticated as the instructions to cheap furniture. But he loved her little girl, still does, and she suspected always will. Robert and Cora were devoted to each other and she couldn't grudge Twiddle-Dumb and Twiddle-Dumber for it. After all, her Cora would always be a woman to die for. But in the end, their great and enduring love didn't just define them together, but so many others … including Martha's legacy.

It was clear now, since Harold fell off that cliff as a boy, that she wasn't going to get any Levinson heirs. Her boy had his good times, his parities, and it wouldn't stop, fore no woman, however keen, would want to stay with a man who was sterilized by childhood injury. So, it was here, at Downton Abbey, that Martha Levinson sat and wore her disappointment, self-deprecation with sarcasm, and prodding to all who engaged her.

The truth was simply that Martha Levinson loved her descendants, but the word "detests" seemed only slightly stronger than how she would describe her opinion of them all.

The Crawley girls were ingrates. She couldn't find any other way to describe her granddaughters. Both Mary and Edith walked around this place with airs that was all Cora. Yet, their pride and dignity were so completely unearned. Her Mary was perfect in body and face, her manners rivaled a queen, and she acted like a princess. But why she thought she could act such a way, Martha couldn't figure. From what she understood, and voiced constantly, was that all Mary has had been stolen from a dead man and his young son. To be honest, Martha had never had a more fun night in years then accusing Mary of this at dinner, in front of everyone. Her poor baby always looked a vampire her entire life, unable to get any color in her cheeks. But lord only knew how much a cherry she looked when told that she had stolen her position from a small child. Robert was howling, Mary was rancorous, and Cora could hardly keep the peace.

"Matthew willed the Estate TO ME! ME, GRANDMAMMA, NOT 'HIM'!" Mary was in a fervor in her outrage, her voice raised as she slammed her pudding spoon on the table uncharacteristically with an impressive shake.

Martha knew that it was a sore subject, fore half the county, more over, the ones that didn't have a peerage, often accused Mary of stealing from a young boy. She had been told, right to her face, in recent years that her position was short lived. That she would not rule the county for long. And she hated it, they all did at Downton. The accusation hung ever over Mary's head wherever she went amongst the common people. It was untrue, Matthew Crawley did will his one true love all his possessions, but Crawley House, to which he left to their son. But in the aftermath of the death of Mary and Henry's baby daughter, and the exiling of the young master from Downton Abbey to Crawley House in retribution, someone, possibly from the house itself, started the rumor that Matthew Crawley's last Will and Testament was a fake. The county, even now, whispered bitterly that it was all a forgery by an envious and wicked mama who felt jilted. Martha didn't know who to believe, but she did enjoy spitting in 'Queen' Mary's beans when she got too uppity.

Cora had taken her aside and laid deeply into her in private, and there she learned of the very tentative peace that her girl was trying to maintain in keeping her family together. It seemed that even in her own house, there was concerns that Violet, Carson, or even Mr. Murray, the lawyer, had forged the document. Furthermore, Cora wanted to keep that same young boy, 'HER' baby boy, out of it all. He had enough of burdening their family's weak moment of awfulness for one lifetime and she did not want to foster a foundation for a future war within the family, nor give Mary a reason to go after their heir any more than she had already. But to Martha, it was already too late. Lady Mary Josephine Crawley, Manager and Crown Princess of Grantham County, at the zenith of her power, already slept with one eye open. She knew, in the dead of night, that a solitary young rebel lived on the periphery of her kingdom and mind. And she always believed him to be bidding time before he comes to take everything from her. Then, and only when she had nothing left, would he find his terribly justified revenge against a cold and hateful mama that he had more than earned, even in her own shattered and blackened heart.

Meanwhile, on the other hand, Martha loathed being around Edith for the complete opposite reasons to her sister. Edith had more governmental and societal power than Mary could ever dream of abusing and using to walk around high and mighty. But her other baby didn't use it. To all those bastard intellectuals in bumfuck Russia who claim that God is dead. She could only give proof that he isn't, and in fact, has a sense of humor. Fore it was only by divine comedy that anyone would give Lady Edith Crawley any modicum of power, much less making her a Marchioness, Lady of Government position, and a Literary tycoon. And it tickled her in irony and prescribed pride for one who was dear to her, despite her flaws. But more so she was disappointed now that this grown woman was still flickered and twisting as a teenager at the prospect of losing her virginity. She still acted unsure, wishy-washy, and still held the position of her mama's favorite screw up, despite her ultimate power.

She still watched as Mary continued to step all over her. She still took her sister's insults, she still allowed Cora to make plans for her, and she still asked Robert for his permission. Even her husband, Bertie Pelham, a solid man, as solid as Robert had been when the girls were young, remained nothing special. They seemed like a very happy, very loving, beige wall ornament that is commented on in tours and never noticed again. They loved one another, which was great and all, but they looked rather like the poster couple in the pages of an offensive parody to an idiot's guide to England. They were full of receding hairline, big inbred nose, and panic at the first whiff of a foreigner. Yet, at least in Edith's case, both were attractive enough to warm your bed for a few nights, if only because they try so very hard to please when given even the tiniest of attention. But to Martha Levinson that was, by far, nowhere near good enough. Edith was a Marchioness, a multi-millionaire, and gorgeous in a, albeit, unconventional way, goddamn it! She should expect someone with that type of power to slap her provincial princess of a sister across the face with her checkbook and show off her name with her titles which should be embroidered on her panties. But instead, she only ever looks with commiseration to her batman of a husband and pokes at her food in disappointment.

In the end, it wasn't the lack of success of her progeny, fore they all were quite the talk of the town. Harold ran their business to skyrocketing profit. Cora was the Countess of Grantham. Mary was a business magnet, motor heiress, and famous model. Edith was the Marchioness of Hexham, had lived in an actual castle, and was one of the most successful authors of her generation. Even their little girls, Sybbie and Marigold, were the most stunning, loveable, and gorgeous young things she had ever seen. And of Marigold, in particular, did she almost cherish as a homeless serf holds a bar of gold. They were beautiful, happy, and loved, and their great-grandmother knew that they themselves would be successful beyond measure, if nothing, then with the help of their incredible looks alone. But still that did not hearten Martha. To be blunt of her assessment and disappointment of her family, it came down to a factor that one would think incredibly absurd given the circumstances …

And it was simply that Martha Levinson's children, granddaughters, and great-grandchildren, had no real guts.

Most people would have misunderstood her intentions, and she guess they'd be right to. The whole goal of parenthood was to make sure that their children had a better life. And she was sure that they all had it in spades, thinking that it would be hard to top the ease of childhood that Mary and Edith had. Though, it seemed that her precious little angels, Sybbie and Marigold, would look back at the magic of this place long afterward. But still, when she thought of her own life, of her husband's life. Watching her mother's family home burned down in Vicksburg, her sisters and cousins eating rats and living in caves in the side of hills to escape Yankee artillery during the siege. The Yankee's freeing their slaves when New Orleans fell, making the women folk fend for themselves, a house filled with traumatized Southern Belles from one occupation to another. She thought of her husband, some Jewish boy from Sleepy Hollow, New York in the wrong place at the wrong time during Manassas. A man that somehow ended up riding with JEB Stuart and Fitz Lee till the end of the war. A man who met and loved the eldest daughter of a colonel whose remains he rode all the way down from the Five Forks in Virginia to a New Orleans plantation so he could be buried by his squabbling family who hated him. These girls, which their love had a hand in creating, knew of loss, knew of heartbreak. But they knew nothing of real hardship, of living on scraps while your sisters scream and cry uncontrollably at any loud noise, thinking it was Yankee gunboats come to finish them.

No one, not their children, not their grandchildren, nor their great-grandchildren knew of that kind of hardship. And it wasn't that she wished it upon them. God only knows she would go through the long and bloody 'Last Full Measure' of the doomed 'Glorious Cause' again just to keep those beautiful girls from harm. But she began to realize, in her dimming years, that history was cyclical and not a straight line. She knew something truly awful was just on the horizon, which might change the fortunes of them all. Whether it was war or something even less predictable. And she knew that they, her children, all of them, didn't seem incredibly strong were it would count.

They sat atop their shining hills looking down at their kingdoms which they thought would last ten thousand years. But Martha knew that it wouldn't, that all things come to an end, and sometimes as quickly as they came. It seemed that there was no grit, no strength in her family. In just two generations they were as soft and uncompromising as their bleeder contemporaries, sharing their same prejudices and goals. They never really had to fight for survival, instead, only polished their laurels and built their thrones a little higher. She didn't expect anything different from the great-grandchildren.

This famous heir who she never met, whose shadow Mary flinches at, that Cora and Edith leave twice a day at different times to visit and dine with at Crawley House, she had little hope for. Martha didn't hear anything that impressed her. Yet, even with all the loyalty of the people of the county, he seemed to her to be a morose and weak child that was still attached at Cora's tit, and used Edith's surprisingly shapely ass as a snuggle pillow as he hid behind her fashionable silk skirts. As for Sybbie, the lovely girl was every bit the priss that Mary was and is, maybe even worse than her 'mama'. She was as beautiful as a fairy princess, even for one so young. But she also acted like a princess, was treated as a princess, and was in fact as spoiled and unkind as one as well. Though she was not rude to her family, sweet as a little June Bug. But to the other children and guests, she expected to be worshiped and loved. And worse of all … they did as she commanded. Then, when it came to Marigold, she wished to take her home and cuddle her. The loveliness of this elven creature was stupefying, and she was the soul of kindness and courtesy. But she also had the failings of her secret mama, the same quiet anxiety, the same allowing of less beautiful, yet much meaner, aristocratic girls insult and bully her. If this unseen and mysterious heir hid behind Edith, then poor Marigold buried her ribbon and golden head in Bertie's chest, or clutched Sybbie's hand and hoped not to be noticed by anyone, however impossible it may have been. The Ballerina had no fight in her, no strong will, she wished only to dance and love those whom she held in her heart.

With a sigh, listening to the gossip of people and places she didn't care about, Martha Levinson came to the realization that perhaps this was the goal of a dynasty. One had only to build it, see it flourish like a farmer that tends to his crop. But the key was to only see the planting through, see the stalks grow, know they'd be good for harvest time, and then leave. Perhaps, after seeing three generations come and go in her lifetime, from back to front, she was the problem. A part of her wondered if she shouldn't just get it all over with, and let the thing play out as it will. But still she clung onto life, fore there was a shadow of threat in her mind that she couldn't escape.

It was long, long, long, years ago. A foggy street at the heart of New Orleans. One-minute Cora had been there, following, holding Annie's hand as they went down "Layfette Street" to get some luncheon. She had not liked the weather, fore when they departed the carriage, it had been sunny and bright. But once they arrived in the French Quarter a deep and unnatural fog had rushed up from the river front by the Graveyard. Martha wasn't a superstitious woman, but there were certain realities that one was forced to acknowledge when born and raised in New Orleans. She could remember seeing it in every person's face as they quickly rushed for shelter, not saying a word of the anxiety in their eyes. "It done a comin …" some of the negroes would shout. "It'a comin, miss!" they'd say in warning. To what they were talking about, she couldn't say, and neither could they. It was a feeling, a certainty, that they all felt. For good or ill, someone had done something, and now it was coming to collect, to reap, or to watch. It had no name, no purpose, and no singular designation, only that something was risen from the crypts, from the river, or from the soul of the City of the Dead itself … and it was coming.

Then, when she turned back, Cora was gone.

**BANG!**

The whole of the Downton Library was startled with a shake when the door was kicked open rudely. Martha nearly spilt her whisky when she gripped the arm rest of the plush red sofa. Quickly, the old woman craned her head backward to see what was going on. On the surface it was odd, under the surface … it was just plain bazar. The solitary woman's private brooding and disappointment in the seclusion of the small library, during a large house party, was interrupted by the oddest thing.

It was a boy of twelve or thirteen. He had chestnut hair that was cut and combed in a bowl that framed a wide pale face of freckles. He was stout, beginning to fill out into young manhood. He wore a blazer with the crest of a rather elite looking private school. Underneath, he wore a woolen sweater vest with matching school colors. His shorts were navy blue and his shoes brown. To Martha he looked quite like any other 'chap' that went to one of those peerage 'staging' schools of Eton or Harrow. Pasty, freckled, effete, his parents were probably cousins of some sort. He grew up with a nanny, parents like the idea of him, but find it tedious to do anything with him. From the look of him, she figured that this one was a bit of a troublemaker, part of a group of titled little assholes who talk like gentlemen and are very haughty to the staff of any establishment they go to. Though, to be fair, that was also her granddaughters in a nutshell. But it wasn't so much the posh boy that had caught her attention …

As it was that he had a black eye, bloody nostrils, and was bound at the mouth and the hands by ladies' nylons.

"Get in there!"

The boy let out a muffled noise of pain as someone out of view put a foot into his backside with a stab. With a stumble, the tween shuffled inside the library, muffling something against the nylons that sounded like threats. But it was soon replaced by a high pitched and girlish shriek into a gag as he was whopped on the head by a book. He quickly shuffled faster. The strange sight left the woman speechless and bemused as she pivoted on the sofa to watch the scene in front of her. A large smile touched the woman's lip in sheer entertainment as she caught sight of the tweeny's captor as he stalked in the room behind his prisoner.

_("Blue Bonnets Over the Border" - Alasdair Fraser & Jody Stecher)_

"See what happens next time you talk that crazy stuff! Cause, I guarantee you, I'll whack you so hard you'll be forgetting your ABCs, Precious!"

He kept the young lordling moving with the tip of a shoe, shaking a thick tome with one hand threateningly as he closed the door behind them. This supposed hunter of preening future gentry was a boy four to five years younger than his captive. He was a nine, maybe ten-years-old, with perfectly tussled blackening blonde curls that were grown out just a tad bit more than most young boy's parents would allow. To Martha he looked almost the child of a farmer, or a fisherman. But there was something different about him than the local color. His clothing was common enough, a double-breasted suede jacket with the collar done up in the back, navy Henley shirt, black trousers, and brown old leather shoes.

But there were odd little things about the young boy that stood out. He was tanner in color than … really anyone. He had the look of someone who had been abroad recently, somewhere tropical or desert like for a good while. Though something told the woman that it had nothing to do with going on vacation. There was also a different way that he carried himself, very disciplined, very matter of fact. But it was more than just his baring. His dress and cloth did not look store bought, but, instead, was woven from material that did not look like any vegetation grown anywhere on earth. His shirt and trousers looked comfortable with a tough but luxuriously soft cotton like textile. But as he walked it seemed to almost camouflage, the material dimming based on the shadows or light that the boy stepped in, making him sometimes almost disappear in dark places. There was also a strange symbol of some sort of rune stitched onto the top of the arm of his jacket. It seemed a marking or hieroglyph of ancient meaning that was significant to the wearer. While around his neck, on a fine chain, there hung what looked like a fob watch of bright silver peeking out from the open buttons of his colorless long sleeve. It seemed an odd place to wear a time piece, but she saw that upon the cover were markings of concentric circles and lines running through them. Martha Levinson knew nothing of "The Master's Wheel", an obscure order and discipline of sword fighting known by very few. But from it she gleaned that perhaps this thing was an important talisman or trinket of some sort whose appearance was greatly deceptive.

But it went beyond just his dress or his physicality. What struck Martha was his presence in the room. With just one look of this young boy it did not surprise her that he had beaten this 'best boy' from Eton in a knockdown drag out. He bore very familiar cerulean eyes that were sharp and sorrow hardened. They said that something terrible had happened to him too early in life to be made sense of. There was a toughness in him that broadcasted a purpose to all he did or set his sights to. Whatever called him forth, whatever he found himself in, this boy would never fail again as he must have in his own short living memory. Whoever this was, he had seen some troubles, and learned from them by that hieroglyph on his arm and the "Master's Wheel" about his neck. In that moment Martha Levinson was convinced, whoever the kid was …

He wasn't any goddamn aristocrat.

"Sit!"

The boy didn't speak with a traditional English accent. Martha could still hear a bit of polish to his words, but he was losing it quickly to something quite homelike to the American woman. It seemed to her that whoever the kid was hanging around with these days, they were not British. She watched him kick a chair forward in front of the long table by the glass doors that led to the patio and garden path. The tied-up Eton tween snarled something at the youth that sounded somewhat defiant. But the younger quickly, aggressively, hammered his book onto the table with a loud and frightening thwomp that startled the older boy into the chair.

"Don't move!"

"Agumff!"

Martha chuckled soundlessly at the comedic sound of the back of the youth's bowl cut head being smacked by the open palmed hand in disgust. She watched as the smaller of the two produced, what the old woman found hard to believe, a young girl's jumping rope. It was coiled like a lasso under the boy's suede jacket as he removed it. She watched with interest while the kid began to tie the Eton youth to the chair with a frightening expertise, making nautical knots every other pair of loops.

"Having some trouble with the dogies out there, Cowboy?" Martha sipped her whiskey as she watched.

The boy looked up in surprise at the old woman's sudden appearance. It seemed that he didn't think that anyone was in the room. To be fair to the kid, the door was closed in the middle of a weekend house party. To most guests that was the unspoken language of being told not to go inside. But since Martha's money had kept this place afloat for forty years, she guessed that the rules were for other people. He frowned at the woman in puzzlement.

She seemed surprised that he would give her such a look of searching recognition. If he wasn't Anna or Baxter's kid, then he must at least be some other servants. But one way or the other, she couldn't understand why he thought he might try and place her, unless Cora let servant's children run around the place during every house party filled with their "betters". But Martha figured that the kid was either thrown by the American accent, something rare in Downton, beyond Cora and himself. Or it might have been that Martha's hair was dyed such a florescent red that it was distracting. But after a moment, misliking the old woman's tone, he turned back to what he was doing.

"Nothing I couldn't handle …" There was an assurance of one's self in the boy's reply which was dismissive. Martha wasn't sure if she should've been insulted. It seemed that the kid thought of her as just another kind of snob, or worse, an ingrate like everyone else. Though, it did amuse the woman to be met with the same kind of prejudgment that she was looking the kid over with.

"Oh, an expert, are we?" She snipped with a tone of sarcasm.

The kid looked up with a glare. "I've fought my share." He finished tying the older boy up.

The old woman only responded with a hint of condescension in her eyebrow raise. "Really …?" She swallowed her drink. "How'd that go?" She asked with a raised arm in mocking submission.

There was a dark look in his familiar eyes. "I'm still here …" There was something short and cryptic in his voice that carried a hostility that was growing. She watched him crack open the book in his hand, the pages crinkling and stiff as he flipped them.

"Yes, yes … so you are." She toasted him, sipping her drink. "Mmm …" She gave a hard swallow before she continued with a hand on her diaphragm to help it go down. "So, what's your weight class?" She added, swirling her drink.

At this point she found a fondness in his distraction as he paced absently to the center of the library. "What?" He asked distantly. It seemed that the kid was becoming incredibly annoyed, clearly, he was in the middle of something that she was interrupting. He closed the book, and then unslung a fine leather pack with a silver clasp in design of a four-pointed star from his back. It jangled as he shrugged it off and set in on the rug, kneeling to slide the book back inside and look for another.

"Your weight class, Cowboy, who are these famous foes you make a habit of tilting with?" She asked lazily, now interested in what exactly he was doing.

The young kid only shrugged distractedly. "Muslims, morons …" He began listing off, motioning to the tied-up youth who made a growl in offense. But then he looked up in a glare at Martha. "And mouthy old ladies." He finished threateningly before going back to what he was doing.

Immediately the woman knew that the kid, whoever he was, had bad experiences with old dowagers. And, sarcastically, she thought how she couldn't have imagined who that might have been in this house. But it seemed that he put up with Violet's nonsense about as well as she did, and Martha bet those must have been interesting conversations if the kid was already standoffish with her, and they just met. Yet, while threatened, faced with impotence from basically a goddamn toddler in her old age, she could help but like the kid's style.

"Hah, hat's off, Cowboy …" She toasted the gab.

The kid looked up again in puzzlement at the old woman's surprise accolade. He knew the kind of usual outrages and tantrums that had come from the Dowager and Lady Bagshaw when 'shark punched' in their vein attempts to voice their snide disapproval of his very existence it seemed. But he was taken aback by someone of the upper classes who found his sharper wit amusing, rather than fainting in the offense of being spoken to in his patented harsh and insulting manner. Who knew that so many women of low achievement expected to be given respect, because, they stepped over the minimal bar of marrying one's cousin and not dying before the age of thirty? He tried to puzzle out who this stranger might have been, when he was distracted.

Suddenly, the door to the library opened in a rush of exasperated aggression. There, through the doorway, a steely eyed blonde woman stalked into the room from the noise of a crowded great hall of aristocratic guests. She was older, though nowhere near middle-age. She was quite the pretty thing, in the working-class sense. The woman wore black blouse and skirt of silk with matching stockings and shoes. Petite and slender she might have been, but there was power behind her stride and maternal scorn in her grey eyes.

Anna Bates only paused in a moment of shock to see the Eton chap with black eye, and dried blood clogging up a nostril. But after her initial shock she only sighed at the captive's bindings of a jump rope and women's nylons. She quickly went to the door where a collection of titled older women stared in fear and alarm over their tea nearby. They were murmuring to themselves in outrage already of the parade the 'rogue' made of escorting his captive roughly in front of everyone. By now the entire Crawley family had been informed of the incident. Quickly, with an awkward smile, the lady's maid shut the door and stalked back through the library.

"What's this?!" She asked pointing to the roughed-up Eton prefect tied to Tom Branson's favorite chair.

"A gentleman's agreement." The boy responded without looking up, his voice sarcastic.

"What kind of gentleman's agreement involves a black eye and bloody nose?" She asked in outrage.

"The kind where a venal prick agrees to act like a gentleman in order to halt the beating." The kid quipped.

"I wouldn't call that much of an agreement." She glared.

"They were aggressive negotiations, but in the end, we both got what we wanted out of the deal."

"You got to beat him up, and he got you to stop?"

"Hey, he was the one who said that as a "gentleman", he had a right of ransom." The youth pointed out.

"And you were more than happy to oblige?" Anna tilted her head angrily.

"When in Rome …" The kid said distractedly still digging through his leather pack.

There was a calming breath centered in her belly as she ran taut open palms down her silk lady's maid skirt as she made her way around the couch. The boy hardly looked up as the woman loomed over him. It looked like Mrs. Bates might strangle the life out of the kid, putting the family in this humiliating position in front of everyone outside this room, but she only let out a deep breath. The woman glared, turning to remain calm by looking at something else.

"Oh!" She startled when she saw Martha. "Ma'am … I didn't see you there." Anna gave a quick curtsey, unsure what the formal protocol was for the untitled but ludicrously rich grandmother of her longtime mistress.

Martha waved her off. "Oh, don't mind me, I'm just enjoying this strange Chinese Opera." She leaned back into the cushions.

"You like Chinese Opera?" The kid found her appraisal of the situation dubious with an unconvinced look her way.

"Nah, never had the taste for it."

"Masks?"

"The make-up …"

"Why? Like looking in the mirror?"

"Hey, when you get to be my age, Cowboy, there ain't no lipstick in the world that's gonna fix what life smears on you. And if you buy something from a man who says it can, you might as well have just gotten mugged for the trouble."

"Then what's your excuse?"

"Hides the Children's blood I use to cleanse the pours. It ain't gonna make me any prettier but I'll live damn sight longer than you're about to."

"Yeah, well … I guess they do that sort of thing in Hell."

"Speaking of finite life spans and Hell. After I sent you back there, Cowboy, you should go look up my mother-in-law for an example. Nothing like looking like a cheap whore to complete the aesthetic of a long, drawn out, and needlessly theatrical mess that was that woman's endless years of tormenting everyone."

"Yeah? Is she interesting, or, you know … more like you?"

"Damn if I know. The woman was like the goddamn Chinese Opera. It was a lot of make-up, drama, and little men shouting in a foreign language … and you always get lost by the second act."

"Feels like this conversation."

"True. Come to think of it, you're about the size of a Chinaman and about as intelligible."

"Perfect, cause you're about the size of the stage …"

Anna watched the back and forth with a glare before cutting in with a clear of her throat when things sounded 'sharp'. "Yes, it's all very tragic, madam." She tried not to lose her temper, frowning privately. It all came from having years of experience of knowing that at no point in Mrs. Bates entire career had Martha Levinson helped any situation go anywhere but downhill. For the staff downstairs at Downton Abbey, the old woman was like a goddess of chaos.

She turned back. "Lady Mary doesn't negotiate with terrorists." She put her hands on her hips in an exclusively maternal way that was directed at the young kid.

"Well, she can have it her own way, I guess. But unless she intends to send in the army, it's gonna cost her sixty pounds, in sterling." There was no budging in the audacity of the young fighter at the lady's maid's feet.

Martha let out a snort. "Sixty Pounds in sterling?" She let out a hoot. "Who do think Prince Valiant over there is, Cowboy, the Earl of Warren?" She chuckled. Both the kid and Anna turned to Martha and answered in unison.

"He is …"

"I-ACH UMM!" the youth squealed his conformation through his gag.

A look of off guardedness erupted over the old woman's face. She whirled around to the kid's captive and then back to the two. She finished her drink with a knock back, pointing at the prisoner as she swallowed whole. Both the boy and Anna nodded in unison to reconfirm the information. "Oh …" She blew out in interest, getting a good look at the figure in a new light. "He seems pretty young." She spied.

"The former Earl was killed at Jutland during the war." Anna responded.

For a moment Martha seemed almost sympathetic. But then she turned back to the Kid. "Sixty?" She blew out in offense. "If you ask me, I wouldn't get out of bed for at least eighty-five, Cowboy." She advised shrewdly. To this the younger looked up from his book with a thoughtful expression at the advice. It was in this moment that no one had ever seen a more conflicted look from Anna Bates that was slowly drawn to Martha Levinson. It was as pleading as it was deadly. But, then, what did she expect, honestly?

There was nothing in this world that couldn't be made worse by Mrs. Levinson.

Anna whirled on the boy kneeling at her feet, digging through things in his pack. "You know how this is going to go. You say eighty-five, Lady Mary says no, you hold him for an hour, and then Lady Grantham comes and claps you both in irons. And where is that gonna get you?" She asked in annoyance, wishing that this ridiculous situation would be resolved already.

"You don't think I'm really gonna stick around for that, do you?"

"Lady Mary isn't going to give you a penny in ransom."

"Well …" the boy chuckled. "Then, I guess she can go without … but then everyone will know, won't they?" there was something scheming, underhanded, and vengeful in his almost teasing voice. "It's no skin off my nose …" He shrugged. "I ask you, Anna, do you know how much people would pay for such fine merchandise in the South Hampton Docklands?" There was something smirking, almost disarming, as he rattled his pack like it was a money pouch.

For a beat Martha looked from the young highwayman to the tied-up Earl of Warren. She found it an incredibly dark prospect that the kid would sell another young boy to the highest bitter to the more 'scoundrel' type of class that lived in the port areas of any city. But on the other hand, watching the way the kid jangled his pack, she began to wonder if there was something more going on to this negotiation. Something told her that the Earl of Warren wasn't the only thing that was being negotiated on.

"I couldn't imagine …" Anna rolled her eyes.

The boy looked one way and then the other, before leaning in to whisper. "I could get ninety pounds." He nodded with a strangely charming look that made the lady's maid so annoyed of the small smirk on her own lips.

"Ninety, really?" She asked trying so hard to not be amused.

"Easily … I tell them who they belonged to, and I know there's a captain of a Perth freighter that would, _in-par-ticular_ , be willing to pay full price for the lot!" He said confidently.

"You're willing to shave off twenty percent of your dockland price, for something Lad Mary can easily just buy new?" The lady's maid asked.

The boy sighed. "I'm not saying I'm not gonna take a loss here, Anna." He shrugged slowly. "But the way I see it, she can rebuy all that stuff, sure. But it's gonna take forever to go and buy completely new and matching sets. And what happens when she's in the department store and people see her buying that stuff? They're gonna ask if she's putting on weight? Or if she's possibly … in a more delicate condition? And before you know it, she gets all the uncomfortable questions and gossip turned her way … and just in time for The Season. I'm gonna be upfront with you, it's simply easier if we do business right here and right now. That way they can get Precious over there back and she can walk around without everyone knowing that … something is missing." He explained, jerking his head back and forth, weighing his hands up and down, commiserating the hassle of his hustle to the senior staff member.

Martha made an interested noise that caught Anna's attention. The old woman lifted an eyebrow in encouragement at the pure look of agony on the lady's maid's face. The American heiress knew that the woman now understood the painful and unescapable truth in the kid's words. It was then that Anna hankered for a simpler time when women of a certain class and status in society were not judgmental and nasty cows, whose sustenance was not gossip and nasty rumors. Yet, with a sigh, she realized that it was a simpler time that actually didn't exist but for her ignorance of her young days. It was painful to know that the boy was right, and it was only going to be more painful to have to explain to Lady Mary just how right he was.

"You're impossible!"

"Indeed."

The kid lurched slightly when the lady's maid lightly shoved a toe into his hip with a frustrated, but still playful, snarl of clenched teeth before she stalked away. When the door closed behind her, the boy's face returned to a deep seriousness as he cracked open a new book. There was a drive, a purpose, to the kid's stalwart appearance as he flipped through crinkling and faded pages of a smaller red soft leather-bound book that was completely worn, having once had golden ivy designs on the front flap. Quietly he read while Martha watched him. The kid once more stood at the center of the library, flipping through pages, mouthing words that he struggled to read.

"What exactly are you doing?" She asked trying to take a sip of an empty drink.

"Looking for something …" He replied without glancing back.

Martha sighed, getting to her feet and shuffling over to the refreshment table with her lipstick stained glass. "In that book?" She asked.

The boy grunted. "It's not a book." He corrected.

The Earl of Warren's gagged pleas was met with a condescending pat on the head as Martha browsed Robert's booze collection in decanters. "Could've fooled me …" She shouted back over her shoulder as she attempted to open the brandy.

"It's a diary …" The boy said distractedly.

"Don't tell me, Edith's?" She asked.

"No …"

"Yeah, I'd guess you're right." She agreed. There was an annoyance of trying to open the brandy with one hand. After a moment of looking around, she settled on the Eton Prefect. "Christ knows it couldn't be Edith's … You're still awake." The youth growled in protest through the nylons as Martha carefully balanced her alcohol glass on the hostage's head.

"It belonged to the Second Earl." He explained.

"Sounds interesting …" Martha's tone was dripping in sarcasm as she sniffed the brandy.

"It's like getting a tooth pulled."

"People get dental work in this country?"

"In theory …"

"Like "The Pangea Theory" or "The Theory of Evolution"?"

"Neither, I suppose, since they haven't been proven …"

"Nether have the existence of Dentists in England."

"I've seen a few …"

"Really? And were they carrying changeling children?"

"Just false teeth."

"Rats, and here I thought I might follow them and find were they took my real granddaughters."

"…"

"Alright, alright … so reading the old wig wearer's memoires is like pulling teeth, eh?"

"The guy is a venial prick who fancies himself a poet.

There was a smirk when she paused. It wasn't the first time the kid had called someone that today. She forgot how kids who hear a new curse word or insult for the first time seem to latch onto it. Harold used to be the same way, till Martha got tired of his subpar use of profanity and decided to take him under her wing to educate him to a higher level of 'enlightenment'.

There was a sudden alarm of wide eyes upon the face of the prefect as he heard the rolling splash of liquid being poured into the glass that was balanced precariously on his head. He looked the sudden and still statue while Martha resigned to pour herself some of Robert's "cheap piss". Taking drink in hand, to the sighing relief of the young Earl, she turned back and saw that the kid was wandering the library. He seemed to be tapping shelves as he frowned into the open diary, trying very hard to decipher the looping and tiny handwritten cursive of an English Lord from the mid-eighteenth century. For a long moment she watched him with interest as his patterns suggested that he was following some sort of directions written into the diary. But after a short time, he muttered something under breath, looking to an ancient bookshelf half blocked by the red cushioned sofa at the right side of the fireplace.

"Gotcha …"

The boy shut the diary and tossed it carelessly onto the sofa. Martha followed laconically as he enthusiastically rushed over to the right armrest. While he squeezed himself between shelf and sofa, Martha picked up the diary and leafed through it. She couldn't make heads or tails of anything, other than what kind of silk gowns his wife wears, if he could buy her more, how gorgeous she was, and how much of a whore she was for wearing them and not loving him. The woman grunted, pondering just how unchanged people of wealth and title in this country remained even after two-hundred years.

Humanity wasted on the humans and all that, she supposed.

"A real charmer, this guy." She clicked her teeth as she sipped 'the piss'.

The boy grunted as he pushed the sofa away from the shelf. "He's just mad, cause his wife loved his brother, and that he couldn't have any children." He panted. Martha watched the boy strain. There was no doubt, the kid might have got it where it counts, but he still had a long way to go.

"Classic tale, if you ask me." Martha flipped through the pages.

"Yeah, well, the eunuch raised his brother's son as his own, the Third Earl." He finally pushed the sofa further away.

"Very nice of him …"

"No, not really … he resented him, exposed him to all sorts of vile things, and cursed his family with a bunch of prejudices that nearly destroyed them over the years … all because he forced a woman to be his wife because she never loved him." The boy sighed, observing his handywork of pushing a sofa all on his own.

"Happens more than you think, Cowboy." Martha grimaced at the iceless aftertaste of British brandy. "Sometimes the thin line between Juliet and Jezebel is if a woman responds to a love letter of some 'Venal Prick'. It's the curse of all beautiful women everywhere."

"Not strictly speaking of yourself …" the boy replied distractedly while observing the foot of the shelves, running a hand over a crevice that shouldn't be there. The glare that came over Martha's face was sharp at the latest of shots taken by the young kid that seemed to have some larger issues with old rich women and matriarchal authority. "Hand me the fire poker will ya, Methuselah?" He asked while knocking on the wooden foundation in different spots.

The old woman slid the heavy iron instrument out of the holder and lifted it above her head to brane the sharped tongued little rogue atop his head. She turned at the last moment to see the tied-up Earl of Warren nodding in frantic encouragement of the impulse. With a pride swallowing sigh of annoyance and a roll of her eyes, she handed the iron instrument into the waiting hand of the highwayman that had his back to the old woman.

"Dayum!" The prefect grumbled into his gag with a disappointed kick into the rug.

THUNCK!

THWACK!

Immediately, the youth took the point of the fire poker and began to jam it into the crevice at the base of the shelf's foundation. Finally chiseling the ancient adhesive, the boy anchored the tool deep into a crack in the craftsmanship. With force, the kid used the point to wedge and heave it loose. With a grunt he began to pry on the two-hundred-year-old addition to the ancient bookshelf. Martha was about to compliment his boldness for not only blackmailing Mary, but for now destroying the Lords of Grantham's private property. But when the panel broke off, she saw that there was another behind it. This one seemed clearly to have been part of the original shelf. There was centuries of dust and cobwebs that covered the ivy carved regal eighteenth century master woodwork. But what she saw that was even more surprising was that at the very edge of the revealed panel was a small greened brass keyhole.

"What's that?" She asked getting closer.

"The truth …" The boy tossed both false panel and poker onto the couch, getting to his knees. "Before the House of Grantham was given the Earldom of the county, they were simply the Viscounts of Downton, and notoriously part of every rebellion against the British Crown since Richard of York raised his banners against Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou. Since then, The House of Grantham had been Yorkists, Cavilers, and Jacobites …" The youth explained as he scooted up on his knees looking his own age in the very charmingly silly enthusiasm of his childlike movements on the rug. She saw him reach into his pocket as he talked.

"Well, when George I gave the House of Grantham the Earldom, there were two brothers, the heir was a Jacobite and a Catholic. The Second son was a Georgian Protestant. They both loved the same woman, a Duke's daughter, but she only had eyes for the rebel. But when he fell at Culloden, she found herself widowed and with child. So, she married the new Second Earl of Grantham. Out of shame and anger at his entire family for writing him off for being sterile and a Hanoverian loyalist, he erased the family's entire history, and taught his "Son" the fashionable prejudices of the day. So, the House of Grantham has carried the curse of such a small, small, foppish asshole's spite." From the boy's jacket she saw, much to her surprise, that he extracted a lock picking kit of old leather.

"Family's a tricky business at the best of times …" Martha commiserated watching the youth open his leather wallet and place one of the instruments in his teeth as he looked for something else. "Hating one's family could lead you down a dark road, make you do stuff you regret later in life, or that your children might." She shook her head remembering the bitter feuds she had with her younger sisters after the war, and how they leeched off her wealth, yet, spited her for it till their dying day.

Interestingly, the small boy stopped when he placed the hook in the old colonial lock. Slowly, he looked up at Martha with a hard but conflicted expression she couldn't place. Of course, she was talking to him, but it seemed that he responded as if she was actually telling him something in advice of a very real problem. With a quick flick, his eyes turned to the diary left strewn and forgotten on the couch. There was a flickered pause of some quiet wonderment, a small but existential fear that, perhaps, he and the hated fop were more alike than he saw or was ready to admit. But as soon as it was there it was gone. And Martha had no idea what it had been all about.

The kid only shrugged in fake ignorance and went to picking the lock at the foot of the ancient shelves.

Sub-par brandy was sliding down her throat when she was startled by the squealing and unpleasant noise of rusted metal sliding in friction against one another. With a lot of effort, the boy, planting a foot from his knee, finally was able to turn the ancient mechanism. There was a heavy clank that rattled the bookshelf violently. The old woman found endearment in her lighthearted interest at the kid whistling in relief, wiping his jacket sleeve over a brow that lacked perspiration. Hooking a finger in the keyhole, the boy slid open the original panel to suddenly get confronted with a rather stale smelling puff of a dust cloud. Martha risked germination using her free hand to cover the booze rather than her nose or mouth. She figured that as long as she kept dust out of her drink the abysmal Crawley alcohol would kill any ancient bacteria she just inhaled. The kid only coughed and waved away the cloud of dust before diving headfirst into the breech.

"Alright, what do we got?"

Martha sipped her drink as the boy began to shovel out stacks of documents, books, and even a few medieval scrolls. She watched in interest as he flipped through some of them before throwing them in a stack on the white dust stained red sofa thoughtlessly. "Patents of nobility for the Court of King James II …" He muttered. "Loan receipt from Paris bank to Charles Edward Stuart, rightful Prince of Britain and Scotland." He tossed the ledger on the pile. "Land Grant for the county from Lady Margret Pole to her grandson Viscount of Downton with signature from Queen Catherine of Aragon." He read off and then tossed it. Martha picked up the land grant that Queen Catherine and Lady Margret Pole had gifted to her youngest daughter's only child, including writing a small doting maternal note to him on the corner of the official document. It seemed that this Lord Grantham was rather close to his maternal grandmother. It seemed a shame that Henry the VIII had her head.

"What is all this?" She asked, gesturing to the piles of leather-bound folders, books, and rolled documents.

The boy was distracted a moment. "Declaration of allegiance to the House of Stuart, 1715 …" the boy read off quietly. Then, hearing her question, he looked up. "The Lard Ass talked a good game, but he didn't have the balls, literally or figuratively, to destroy the House of Grantham's recorded history. So, he hid all the things that tied the House of Grantham to the Yorks, Woodvilles, and the Stuarts. Then, he bent the past to fit with his fashionable politics of the age and made sure that every heir passed his twisted narrative down generation to generation till everyone accepted it as the truth." He shook his head. Martha figured that even just one of these documents would kill Violet Crawley stone dead and give Lady Bagshaw the best gift she ever had in her crusade to finally destroy the House of Grantham's reputation.

"You got letters from Lady Pole from the Tower of London to her grandson. You've got Regimental musters for units rallied to the Caviler cause under Lord John of Dundee. Secret letters from the Rightful King James from Rome. And the first patents of nobility given by King Edward IV to Sir Grantham "The Black Dragon of York", first Lord of Downton and founder of the House of Grantham. Everything that would offend the sensibilities of British Lords claiming to be descendants of Tudor men, the first Protestants in England, and ardent Georgians." He shook his head.

It seemed that in a fit of a young rebel seeking the absolute truth, that he had uncovered a treasure trove of hidden history that would destroy everything that the House of Grantham was built upon for centuries. It would be enough to shake Robert and Mary's faith in all they thought of themselves, realizing their ancestry of self-importance and monarchist loyalty was but a fantastical fiction dreamt up by one small and abusive man long ago. Thus, there would come a schism that day and ever afterward in the House of Grantham. Fore Lord Grantham and Lady Mary would sooner cling to the fiction that made them noble in the eyes of the peerage and brought them a close friendship with the Royal Family of Winsor. While the truth of their family legacy of secret Catholicism, Rebellion, and Arthurian Mysticism of an older England of yore would be embraced by their heirs ever afterward. It would lead to bitter and adversarial conflicts between the Royal House of Winsor and the Americanized Republican heirs of the rugged and fallen House of Grantham for near a century, with no sign of quitting as of even the latest of Royal Weddings.

"Here's a harsh reality of the world, Cowboy. The victors get to write the history."

"Yeah, I bet you're one of them."

"I'll take that as a compliment, but, alas, I'm from the South."

"Oh, tough break … though, I heard that the South will rise again."

Martha picked up a medieval document with the White Rose of York atop it. "I really hope not … we just got the place clean from the last unwanted barbeque, last thing we need is to invite them all back for a revival." She turned the document over to see what was on the back.

"Here we go …"

From inside the dusty cubby he pulled out the last of the hidden hoard of history. It had been the solitary item he had been looking for all along. It was a large and cumbersome tome that looked heavy enough to kill a man. Its cover was made of a hard and tough leather. As the boy strained to pull it out, cobwebs and filth spilled off its cover, the spine of the large book creaked and cracked while a page slipped from the binding. To Martha's surprise she saw that the dry leaf like paper had on it the most beautiful artistry of hand drawn and colored embroidery. The writing in it was of an elegant and artistic gothic font. She realized, as the kid cleaned the cover with hand and breath, that he had an illustrated chronicle, hand drawn by monks of the medieval age.

She took a step closer in interest and just a bit of wonder. The boy opened the book on his lap, the binding straining in the new air it was exposed too after two full centuries. The boy blew dust from the pages as he looked at a gloriously gorgeous illustration of a milky limbed maiden wandering a painted forest riverbank in long cerulean raiment and a crown of white roses. Her feet were bare upon the mossy rocks, and her tresses were long and raven. Even in the page she was beautiful beyond reckoning. The old woman was frozen a moment by the majestic picture of the girl so perfectly captured by the ancient hands of a man devoted to God's divine plan. After the boy blew more neglect off the page, he began to do something that caught Martha's attention. Mouthing to himself, it took the woman unawares that the kid was actually reading the ancient language inscribed on the page next to the Arthurian like maiden's illustration.

"You can read that?" Martha asked in shock.

The boy looked up. "Yeah …" He frowned in puzzlement. "It's not that hard." He shrugged easily, going back to what he was doing.

Martha just shook her head turning to the tied-up Earl who was also somewhat interested. "It would bruise the hell outta me." She called to the captive while motioning with her drink to the kid at her feet.

Just then, the door to the library opened again. This time, from the crowded grand hall, was a tall man with proper and stalwart demeanor. The uniform of the butler fit the sleek and dapper chap with absolute dignity, almost as if he was made for it. There was elegance and finery that exuded from the man that was only second to Lady Mary within the halls of Downton Abbey. If one thought of a butler on the London stage or in the flickers, then Thomas Barrow, with his fine features and sleeked back black hair, was your fellow. Yet, Martha Levinson always thought of the man as having a bit of shark like quality in his handsome face. Now, as co-butler of the Estate, he seemed rather a Great White atop a hill.

The difference from the anxious and exasperated Anna Bates and the solid Thomas Barrow was all in his attitude. He closed the door behind him, never opening it an inch wider than it had to be to let himself in. His face was emotionlessly pleasant, but it betrayed a deep amusement. It stood rather in contrast to Anna's panic when seeing the Earl of Warren gaged by women's stockings and tied by Ms. Sybbie's Jumping rope to a chair by the refreshment table. Seeing the butler, the youth immediately bucked and muffled into his gag, making entitled demands of the highest-ranking member of Downton Abbey's staff. But he was disturbed to find that the slender man only put his hands behind his back and observed him a moment longer.

"Well, Your Lordship, I guess we all learn our lessons in the end. Perhaps we'll think twice before bullying Ms. Marigold in the future, won't we?" The man said coolly, with just a hint of a deeper anger. Then, he reached over the sudden flinching shoulder of the prefect and grabbed a biscuit off a tray before turning.

Though, one who knew Thomas Barrow would not be shocked that he was gloating at the misfortune of one of the upper classes. It was uncommon knowledge that despite all the wrongs, hurts, and vile things the man had done to others in the past, there was one thing that he cherished above all else … and that was the children of Downton Abbey. Thus, when Mr. Barrow heard of the mean names that Ms. Marigold had been called, how she hid in his office in tears at the shaming of it, he was as disturbed as the perfect lovely girl sat downcast upon his knee. Thus, he did not mourn the state that he heard the little bastard was in when Anna came back downstairs with the news of the missing Earl of Warren's fate. In fact, he was glad to see the poshy snob trussed up in humiliation, finding it so much more satisfying than his previous plans to lace 'His Lordship's' food with industrial strength laxatives for talking to his fine and sweet little Ms. Marigold with his classist prejudice tripe.

The man popped the sweet into his mouth, crunching it as he walked up to the kid who was still reading from the ancient chronicle. Though, the look of satisfaction on his face was soon replaced with dismay to see the sofa pushed away, the bottom panel of the old shelf missing, piles of books and scrolls everywhere, and films of dust staining the floor, rug, and sofa white. But after a long moment of placing his hands on his head in disbelief, he did what most people do at the kid's antics. Thomas shook his head and sighed. When the boy looked up, the butler was looking over what exactly was found.

"And?" The kid asked.

"She doesn't believe you …" Thomas replied reading centuries old Jacobite plots in letters from Rome.

The boy slid to his feet and stood. The great effort it took for the boy to hand the tome to the butler and the effortless way he took it, told a tale of miles that the kid had to go before achieving manhood. With irritation, the boy grabbed his pack and followed the butler to an angled desk were Lord Grantham and Tom Branson's puzzle of the "Crystal Palace" in London was half completed. The pieces scattered in violent thump that hit the table when the butler dropped the book on top of it all.

There was a look of annoyance on the kid's face. "Proof of life?" he asked.

Thomas nodded. "Proof of life …" He confirmed. With a roll of his eyes, the boy reached into his pocket to retrieve something.

When Martha saw what it was, she looked bemused in humor. "Did I miss something here?" She asked taking a sip of her drink.

It was one thing when the Earl of Warren was tied to a chair in the Downton Abbey Library. It was another thing when there were secret panels in bookshelves hiding documents and medieval chronicles. But Martha Levinson felt that she had gone beyond the looking glass when the kid pulled a pair of silky Champagne colored women's panties from his jacket pocket. Without a beat he handed it to the butler.

"Proof of life, sixty sterling. In ten minutes, it's gonna be seventy! A pound a minute. You tell her that." He warned the messenger.

"I'll tell her." Thomas nodded, unwadding the tight silky shorts in his hands. Martha looked confused, amused, and tickled pink at the strange turn of events when Thomas turned and gave her a slight bow of respect before going to leave the library.

"Oh, uh, Mr. Barrow …" The kid called to the butler.

"Yes?" He turned back.

There was a glint in the young kid's eye. "Take the long way …" He smirked darkly.

There was a hint of evilness in the dapper man's wink, before he turned back to the emotionless but pleasant servant. Martha watched as the man, who had every opportunity to hide the smooth and sleek panties in his livery or balled up in his hand, instead held them out in front of him and exited the library. There, a crowd of aristocrats turned and watched the butler of Downton Abbey 'unintentionally' present the entire house party with Lady Mary's undergarment.

Martha's surprised face was marked by a grin that went ear to ear as she turned back to the boy who was going through his pack.

"Mary's Panties?" She asked with a deep amusement.

"All of them." The boy nodded.

"That's what you're ransoming …?" She chuckled at the bold cheek of it all.

"You bet …" He went back to the book, setting his pack on the desk above the chronicle. She took a moment to ponder the scheme as the boy flipped through the book, blowing dust off the pages and onto Robert and Tom's puzzle.

"What about him?" She pointed out the Earl who, at this point, was not so subtly trying to hop the chair away. Yet the legs were unfortunately caught under the rug and eventually his progress was impeded by the upturned corner that wrapped the front legs.

"Him …" The boy gave a mocking scoff, taking up a paperback that Bertie had been reading the other night and pegging the Earl in the head with it from across the room. The youth let out a muffled but intense growl of hatred as he sat stranded in a tangled snag of the library rug. "No one is gonna pay money for Lord Page Boy over there …" he shrugged and went back to what he was doing. "I needed something more real." He flipped a page with a searching frown.

"Then why is he tied up?" Martha asked.

The boy stopped what he was doing and consulted his pack again. This time instead of literature, he produced another one of Mary's satin pantie. This time they were pearly white and seemed a lot skimpier than regular shorts. She saw it as part of some sort of a scandalous Parisian lingerie set that no one was supposed to know she owned. The boy showed it to Martha with a puzzled look on his face. It was obvious that for all his knowledge of history and 'Do it yourself' indoor archaeology, he seemed absolutely stumped about something having to do with the item in hand.

"I was already hunting 'Precious' over there for calling Marigold a "bastard cunny" …" The boy whispered the word which made Martha feel an explosion of endearment for the kid. "And I caught him in the laundry, right …?" He continued.

Suddenly, something told Martha Levinson that she wasn't going to like where this was going.

"And there he was, standing in the laundry room. He had a handful of these knickers and he was smelling them." The boy reported in confusion. "Can you believe that?" He asked with a shake of his head. Martha turned back to the captive and noticed that his pale freckled face was awash with burning red of shame as he looked away.

"Somehow, I can, Cowboy …" She turned back. "I really can." She nodded.

"Well, I jumped him, and then I tied him up with what I could find." He shrugged. "I mean, I don't know what he was doing … but sneaking down to the laundry to smell a woman's used knickers seemed … kinda wrong, you know?" The boy shrugged.

"Well, it's poor form at any rate, I'll say that." There was a look of pure entertainment on the woman's face, leaning back crossing her arms over her chest. Just when she thought this abnormality couldn't get any better, now on top of a dime novel mystery, she learned that the villain was in fact a prepubescent who was sniffing her eldest granddaughter's panties.

The boy fingered and threaded the satin knickers in his hand carefully in puzzlement. "Why do you think he was doing that?" he asked.

But before the woman could answer, she let out an awkward breath of humor when the boy suddenly, and she could guess not for the first time since the incident, took a deep sniff of the crotch of Lady Mary's used undergarment. When he looked up again, there was confusion as he allowed the smell to settle in his nostrils.

"I don't get it …" He in turn offered it to Martha so that she could sniff as well. "Kinda like lobster dowsed with perfume." He encouraged.

Immediately Martha held her hand out in disinterest. "Uh, you know what? I'll take your word for it, Cowboy." She pushed it back to him.

Once more, the kid shrugged and buried his nose into the crotch of the satin panties and took a deep sniff. Then, again, he allowed the smell to sit in him before he shook his head. It was obvious he didn't understand the appeal. She found her heart so softly aglow with genuine affection for a young kid who seemed tough, worldly, and intelligent, but still so incredibly innocent that he had no understanding for even the concept of why another youth, in the start of puberty, would want to cherish and smell a beautiful woman's panties.

There was a smirk on her face as the boy did a double sniff, before shaking his head again and putting them back into his pack. She wondered how long they had been in there and was pretty sure that the smell of Mary's worn knickers would be a permanent fixture. Though, Martha did not know it yet, the young highwayman would ever live to regret having stored them there. For many long years afterward, when he was grown enough to understand these things, the kid would ever grudgingly label the lingering and pervasive smell of Lady Mary's intoxicating 'sent' in his leather pack as "The Revenge".

After a long moment the boy pulled out the rest of the documents in his pack and began to flip through them. It seemed, for the first time since Martha had first stepped foot in this room half a century ago, that someone was actually using the library for the purpose it was meant for. She watched as the boy shuffled through photographs, and then turned back to the page with the enchanting woman upon it. He read the inscription quietly, comparing her to photographs.

_("Love & Honour" – Celtic Woman)_

As he did so, Martha felt herself oddly drawn to her. She couldn't help but feel like she knew her, that she had seen her before. But it was stronger than that, it was like she was looking at a picture of one of her children. There was a warmth of pure love that overcame her. And she even felt a tear begin to form in her eye as her chest tightened in emotion. She couldn't explain it, could not quantify the experience. It was like she had looked upon the picture of something lost that was so incredibly dear to her that she had now found again after so long.

"Who is she?" She desperately stifled the emotion in her throat.

"This is the Lady Elfstone …" The boy read from the ancient inscription in the chronicle. "To what her real name is, I don't know, they don't say. She was a Byzantine Princess, the last of the Imperial House. She had fled the fall of Constantinople. How she got to England, no one knows, not even the monks of the abbey. She washed up in Wales and was found by a Tudor Lord. They said that she had never spoke of her life in Byzantium again, "fore the grief of her people's ancestral city afire was too great". But she was a beauty like holy sapphi … uh, well, to sum up, they say she was really beautiful. And uh, her voice was a match for even a heavenly chorus. She was kept as a prize of the Lancastrian Court in London. The monks here say that only her presence and the Grecian hymnals and songs she wove could quell the fits of madness that would overcome Henry VI, and so Margaret of Anjou kept her a prisoner in the tower." The boy turned the page. He blew on the dry piece of parchment as he leaned close to read. "It seemed that Queen Margaret wanted to give her to the Lancastrian Heir. But on the day of their wedding, she uh, she fled, I guess. Someone smuggled her out of the castle … and she rode for Yorkist lands in Northern England. She sought sanctuary at … Downton Abbey." The boy stopped and looked up in surprise at Martha. For a just a beat they felt a pang of something, a tiny breath upon their neck, a slender figure crowned in roses that sat upon the sofa watching them. The boy shook his head and continued.

"The monks took her in, but uh, Lords Somerset and Percy marched an army to take her back …"

"Must have been one hell of a woman."

"Yeah, well they incurred the wrath of the Knight of the county … Sir Grantham "The Black Dragon". He was the bastard son of Lady Katherine Percy, and Lord Percy's half-brother, whose land the abbey was on. There was a battle on that field over there." The boy pointed past the columned veranda at the edge of the gardens. "They outnumbered Sir Grantham's forces three to one, but the Knight wouldn't yield to them the beautiful Lady for any price, threat, or odds … eventually, the "Black Dragon" stood alone and surrounded, fighting his last stand by the doors of the abbey itself taking up a notched battle axe and stricken helm, but uh, he fought off waves of enemies, still unwilling to surrender the Princess even then. Oh, well, lucky for him, Edward of York arrived with his father's men and drove the Lancastrians off Grantham's land. But still, he was wounded, having cut down many of the greatest of the Lancastrian Knights in defense of the Lady. It says here that the monks and the Princess healed him, and there …" The boy was quiet a moment. "Sir Grantham fell in love with the nameless princess who sat up with him through the worst of it. He gave to her the name … Lady Elfstone for how she shimmered in the sunlight by the abbey's windows." There was a touch of a sad smile of reverence on his face as he turned the page with a crackling of ancient binding.

But then the boy didn't say anything else.

"If I wanted damn cliff hanger I'd go to a serial, Cowboy." Martha scoffed in annoyance. "What happened next?" She pressed.

The kid flipped through several pages, then flipped back. "I dunno …" The boy said in genuine confusion. "This is where the entry stops." Then, much rougher than what would be advisable for a book so many centuries old, he tore through the chronicle. "There's pages torn here …" The boy ran a finger over the edges behind the last entry of the story.

"Well …" Martha snorted in annoyance. "I'll give it to the old Second Earl … he could tenure running the Asshole department of the University of Shit-Head." The woman sighed venomously knocking her drink back. With the burn still in her throat she turned to the captive Earl who seemed transfixed on the story. "What do you say, kiddo, you look like someone vying for a full ride to that distinguished establishment." She called over facetiously. The titled youth responded with muffled growl of something that she would wager was terribly unbefitting of a gentleman.

"Magna Cum Laude material that one." She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder mockingly to the rancorous youth when turning back to the younger kid. But the surprise adventurer was thinking quietly, gripping his chin with curled forefinger and thumb, his other arm crossing his torso.

"The tomb …" He said quietly.

"The what?" She frowned.

"The tomb …!" He suddenly was hit with a visceral reaction. He turned to Martha. "The tomb!" He repeated excitedly.

"Great … that narrows it down!" She played along with sarcastic mocking. The boy glared at the old woman, then began to dig through his pack, bailing out Mary's panties as he looked.

"Jesus Christ … I bet you'd steal the drapes off her too if they weren't nailed down." She shook her head in awe at the growing pile of silky and satin knickers on the floor. The boy didn't respond, taking what looked like an old page of a similar tome from inside the leather-bound folder with the pictures he was comparing.

"I knew it!" He said with a great joy of discovery.

The woman approached putting her glass down. There, she saw that the boy was fitting the page in hand perfectly to the last rigid parchment of the torn chronicle. Upon the restored page was the drawn and painted picture of a hall of stone. There, light shined from a rounded stained-glass window upon a large marble slab where two sculpted figures lay side by side. To the left was a knight in full plate, one hand grasped a stone sword, the other was intertwined with the hand of the person next to him. There was a sorrow even upon a face so perfect and beautifully crafted. Her long tresses were finely carved as she rested on a bed of glossy flowers. Upon her brow she bore a crown of roses and her marble raiment matched the drawing in the pages of the book. Martha, for a beat, looked in wonderment at the hand drawn artistry that depicted the final resting place of the first Lord Grantham and his beloved Lady Elfstone. Somehow, she could've guessed that it ended in death eventually. Yet, still she felt cheated. She wanted to know what happened to them, wanted to know how their love story unfolded, their trials and triumphs. It felt like skipping to the end, the very end, the end of all things, really.

"I know where they are …" The kid said.

"Yeah?" Martha quirked an eyebrow at the picture, tilting her head at it. "So, do I … and we all end up there eventually." She shook her head.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, maybe not you." He shot back, reaching for something in his jacket pocket he walked over to the glass doors that led to the patio at the entrance of the Downton gardens.

"You've been talking to my airhead children again, Cowboy?" She asked in droll sarcasm.

The boy stopped and looked out the glass. "I mean, I know where their tomb is …" Suddenly he pulled out and extended an odd and ornate telescope, looking out in the distance.

"They're at the old fortress atop Spectacle Rock."

In the grey of the cold early spring the old woman could just make out an obscure structure on the slope of a wooded hill that had ever lain in the backdrop of Downton Abbey. Her eyesight wasn't much these days, but she could still almost see the ivy and vines that wrapped the smooth and mossy ancient walls. Beyond, there was a muted black to the amber and blue of stained glass that was half caved in by wild tree branches. It was an old Roman ruin, retrofitted by the last Kings of the North before the Saxons. How many Lords of Grantham had sat upon its forgotten seat which once commanded the view of vast green moors, little woods, and a solitary abbey at its foot? There was no telling when that same abbey became the new seat of the county and the old fortress abandoned, lost to time by the memory of many generations of man since then.

Martha Levinson had been coming to this place for over half a century. Yet, today, she had learned more about this family than she ever had cared too before. It astonished her how suddenly she was invested in the story of these two strangers from hundreds of years ago. She could call it boredom in old age, but she knew the truth was that, for the first time, she felt a sudden fondness for the ancestry of the Crawley family and the House of Grantham. She still refused to find it in herself to give them any admiration, they still being a bunch of pompous bleeders. But still they had some good stories that might redeem them enough for her not to think that it was a complete waste for her little girl to contribute to the legacy of such a rich love story which founded this family. Though, she was of the opinion that it all started going downhill since the last days of "The Black Dragon" and his lady love from the golden Grecian courts of Constantinople.

But most of all, she found that her fondness for the story and the many interesting mysteries to explore was tied up in a solitary young kid. She watched him with interest as he looked out toward the old fortress with a telescope of gilded metal with which had strange runes upon the edge of the outward looking glass. It looked old, ancient even, with other odd symbols engraved on it. Seeing him with that fob watch, the hieroglyph on his jacket arm, and now the ancient telescope, she couldn't help but think that there was something more about this kid ...

With all that in mind, she knew in her old bones what he was going to do. Tomorrow, he would take up his pack and fill it with supplies and gear. He'd find a tall walking staff, then, alone, he would cross field and wood, cut across countryside. When he reached the wooded hill, one by one, he would climb the rocks and hack free the old Roman road up to the fortress. Nothing would stand in his way to getting to that tomb. And Martha Levinson would give hats off to the kid, who even now, exuded a stalwart valiantry in his familiar eyes. It would become a future distinguishing feature for those of his siring that would come ever afterward. Whatever could be said for this boy and his unbroken line of ragged 'cracked' descendants from father and son till this very day, there were no shirkers or cowards in their company.

But still she couldn't shake one question in all that foreknowledge of what was to come next.

"What's your interest in all this?" Martha asked the distracted youth.

The boy was slow to turn to face her. But when he did, it was with conflict. It seemed that there were a thousand reasons to tell her about what he was doing. Yet, he couldn't find the words to describe or explain any one of them. Instead he frowned to the door as if he was looking past it toward the grand hall. It was but a solitary person in that crowd which concerned every part of his young soul, fore she consumed him by night and day. Yet, he dared not tell her all he found, fore she wouldn't understand, nor would she want too. But worse, it seemed incredibly impossible to explain his fears to her when he himself couldn't quite put them into words. It was clear of his trouble as he pushed away the puzzle and began to set up, turning back to the picture of Lady Elfstone. It seemed to Martha that the boy was desperate to speak aloud this torment that haunted him …

Even if it was to some random old woman he knew of distantly.

* * *

**Entr'acte Music**

" _Main Title Theme" (Ready Player One) – Alan Silvestri_


	2. Part II

**Part II**

"Alright, once more for the nosebleed section … Several months ago, I was part of an expedition to the bottom of the ocean."

He turned to the old woman who was surprised at the bombastic statement … five minutes ago.

Now, not so much.

"Yeah?" She crossed her arms, the ever-pervasive doubt in her eyes at such things.

The boy glared. "Believe what you want …" He dismissed her dubious sarcasm and thinly veiled mockery in retort.

In front of them on the desk was navigational charts and ancient scrolls. There, one of the most detailed nautical charts that anyone might have ever seen in existence could be found. Upon it was a circled X area which bore the neatly written classic cursive of _"Colossus of the White Lady"_. Next to the map there was a very ancient, faded, leather bound chart which had a continent the size of Australia. However, the landmass of question did not resemble any currently known to Earth. Upon it were elegant and strange runes signifying star positions and latitudes in blue ink. Martha also noticed that these same markings were also carved onto the edges around the ocular lens of the young adventurer's ancient telescope. The continent in question was shaped like a ruddy five-pointed star, with a gigantic single peaked mountain at it's very center.

For now, the kid still carried this ancient relic in his pack. But, one day, it would be found framed in the study of Crawley House. And later still, in a charming and rustic Tudor designed homely home where the heirs of the fallen House of Grantham would be born and dwell in exile across the sea. And in those dark days, upon rare full moons of a Winter Solstice, amongst the multi-colored lights of the Christmas Season, the moonlight would stream brightly from the windows and touch a silver and crystal astrolabe hanging in the center of the room. From the beautifully crafted heirloom, the naked moonlight would reflect upon the chart. Then, with much wonder, even older runes and symbols, once invisible, would come aglow in the cold silvery light. The tradition of such things at times of Christmas would bring wonder and amazement to the otherwise tragic and lost childhoods of many future heirs. For a time, their burdens and sorrows would be forgotten in the wholesome reverence. Father and son would sit together in comfort, clinging to faith of something greater in this world that did not plot to no purpose. All of them baring the scars of the many battles of 'the long defeat' ere the loss of Downton Abbey to an evil of the ancient world whose vile curse upon the name they bore weighed heavier as the decades melted one to the other.

"I went on an expedition to an island continent that was once the home of a mighty empire of man that was sunken many ages ago. When we got to their capital city of Armenelos …" He produced a picture.

"Wait …" Martha interrupted. "How did you get there again?" She asked.

"Oh, for the love of … we went over this! I went there on a clockwork submarine!"

"No, but how did you get into this sunken capital of some island civilization of Pre-history? Did you wear diving suits or something?"

"Ugh, we … look, we created artificial air bubbles around districts of the city that we wanted to explore."

"Air bubbles? And how did you do that, presumably, thousands of leagues under the sea?"

"Do you know about Tesla Coils and electromagnetic manipulation of water molecules per mass and weight?

"Why, do you?"

"Uh, no, not really, actually …"

"Yeah, well, it seems that I opted out of that course at finishing school, or I'd be a richer woman than I am already."

"Great, then, why are we worrying about it?! So, moving on …!"

_("Syracuse" – James Newton Howard)_

Till the day he died he'd never forget the memory of standing by the helm on the brass platform of the bridge when they first found her. It had been near three weeks of wondering around in the inky black depths of the ancient remnants of the Sundering Seas. The powerful floodlights atop the clockwork vessel focused into an endless abyss filled with white speckled ocean debris and impenetrable darkness. Tensions between the chief members of the expedition was coming to a boiling point, especially when carrying around such a volatile creature like "The Good Doctor" for so long in tedium wrapped in darkness. They were all afraid that the ' _beast'_ would take over him and they be trapped under the dark and heavy fathoms with a great monster who was worse than enraged but stricken with an even more dangerous type of affliction … boredom.

But just when withdrawing seemed the better part of valor, the young apprentice to this _league of extraordinary_ figures saw her through the darkness. It was a great colossus staked at a leaning tilt. Everything below her torso lay swallowed within the ocean floor, her carved belt of lace tangled in forests of great trunks of coral which looked like nothing more than a manicured lawn of pink and green from the sheer size of the statue. When they approached her beautiful face, they were but a sparkle in her eroded eye which great schools of fish crossed with odd glowing orbs upon antennas on their heads. When they came within sight of both her stone arms outstretched in blessing, encompassed by the silken wings upon her back, the entire bridge exploded in a primal and victorious cheer. He remembered his Captain at the helm, the fierce Sikh Corsair, balling the shoulder of his young apprentice's suede jacket and giving him a shake in gritted excitement as he admired the great statue's stone face half in ruin after tens of thousands of years of neglect.

Near a century upon the sea, retreating from, rejecting, all of humanity and its troubles, with a few exceptions. But after so many decades, the once mighty prince amongst men had finally found her, found it. The foremother of the Sea Kings of old, said to be able to speak to birds and fly amongst them. But her colossus alone meant more. There upon her threshold was the marker of the beginning of her descendant's realm. Here with her open arms lay the gates of _Anadûnê,_ home of the _Atalantë_.

Though, the Greeks had another name for the legendary sunken continent.

"While exploring the throne room of the kings and queens, I found this." The boy suddenly put up next to the masterful illustration of Lady Elfstone a large photograph of a mural upon a pearl marble wall.

Martha took a step closer as if drawn in by what she saw. It was a painting of a woman dancing by moonlight through a forest. Fireflies fluttered about her painted figure as she moved. The young woman had long raven tresses that were sown with flowers of the forest. Her figure was pale and slender with bright shining grey eyes. The loose gown she wore was cerulean and made of a fine silk that sparkled in the moonlight. For a moment, Martha was once more overtaken with the same overwhelming sense of sorrowful love for the woman in the wall mural as Lady Elfstone. She caught herself reaching out to touch the photograph. When she noticed it, the old woman cleared her throat and withdrew her hand, refusing to glance to the kid for his reaction. The young adventurer looked up at her, but yet, there was no judgement in his eyes to her emotion.

Fore he had also had a similar reaction to seeing the maiden for the first time.

_("Hyrule Castle theme" – Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess)_

Even now, when he closed his eyes, his brow twitched in the sharp claps of his footsteps upon the white and black marble stone, breaking a silence counted in ages of this world. He had entered the throne room alone, the first to step foot in it for tens of thousands of years. It was a tall and massive dome whose gilded roof was in ruins. There, upon the ceiling was a mural of a shining ship of glass riding the clouds like it was upon the sea. Surrounding this glass ship were god like figures painted in their patron elements which offered this mighty mariner their many blessings. The distant echoes of his old footsteps were funneled through the gaps in the painted domed roof and out into the eternal night of the ocean's great depths which loomed heavily from above.

There was an ominous shadow of threat that threaded seamlessly through a deep lonesome melancholy of such a magnificent and ruined palace of once majesty. Wandering, the boy found himself in a vast and long room of white columns and tall stained-glass windows. Between columned arches were tall and regel statues of former kings and a few ruling queens which flanked the main pathway that led to the far end of the room. Some still stood, powerful, majestic, forever in the glory and splendor of their power. But others were covered by the slimy debris of ancient ocean life, barnacles suctioned to their mighty and fair faces like hideous boils. Meanwhile, others were ensnared and tangled mercilessly in bristled vine like seaweed that wrapped their proud white marble figures. Yet, for most, their limbs and crowned heads had to be stepped around or over as they lay broken in the impact craters of the tile floor.

Behind the statues were cracked and broken stained glass windows. Each depicted some legend of this ancient and advanced civilization's mythology. He spotted a half-broken window which depicted a golden-haired figure, fairest of all males, with a rude harp. He seemed to be singing to a group of other men by a fire, more savage they seemed, all fiercely bearded and in tattered clothing. It was some moment of enlightenment and wisdom from divinity passed down to the earliest fathers of men. There were others that he could not make out. One of a man in helm and mail, he wielded a two-handed battle axe as he stood upon a rock, surrounded by a sea of hideous and monstrous foes. A worm like reptile was spewing forth a vile spout of fire from its final death rattle as a black sword pierced its soft scaly belly, the image of the mighty warrior who delivered the final blow had been long shattered. There was a depiction of a bearded and wayfaring man clasping the fair hands of a beautiful princess in cerulean gown and golden flowers in raven tresses as they stood together in a woodland glen.

And the final stained-glass mural lay behind the tall white marble steps that led to a great stone seat. There, ever in the foreground to the throne of the great Sea Kings of the West, was a picture of the same shining and shimmering ship of glass painted on the ceiling. Upon its bow stood a golden-haired captain which bore a shining and holy gem worn to his brow. By his side there flew a maiden fair whose colossus lay at the borders of this downfallen realm. She wore the white raiment of a queen, with silken wings upon her back like an angel. Together, they sailed the heavens, the nimbus their foam, the blue of the sky their sea.

But it had been in caution that the young adventurer had approached the figure that sat upon the tall marble throne of the Sea Kings of the ancient West. Though she was a skeleton, with no leavings of her fair appearance but her fine luxurious hair of platinum, the last queen of the greatest of man's empires still remained regal in a gown of black and gold. Though, born to a legacy of virtue and bravery unmeasured, as depicted all around her, the final days of her life were mired in the greatest evils the world had ever known. And in these blasphemies, her people reveled, led by a cruel husband, a foul cousin that took her against her will and all laws of men and God to marriage and bed. In her unhappy and languished years her peopled mocked and defied God in their sinful and gluttonous rebellion. Ever did she try to repent for what they did, but all of it was to despair. And here ever after, she remained as she had that day, in the last hour, when she accepted her fate. Then, she only prayed for merciful judgement as the towering wave consumed her and her people, even as she sat upon a throne that should have been rightfully hers.

Yet, when the young adventurer ascended the white steps to that great seat, he felt her eyes upon him through their empty sockets. About her neck was an artifact that he did not recognize, nor does its original description come into this tale. But when the boy approached, for the first time, since even before its last wearer bore it, did its full power come alive. It winked in an azure light that began to glow stronger, brighter at his approach, as if awakening slowly from a dark dream. It was then, that he heard the soft crooning notes of an enchanting song coming faintly through the echoing domed hall. Unsure and afraid of the glowing artifact, the adventurer backed away slowly. Instead, he followed the spellbinding song till he was confronted by the painted mural of the beautiful figure which had lain to the right of the throne, near the seat of the Queens of old.

He had stared at her for a long time, unmoving, transfixed as one who had been stricken dumb. Then, suddenly, a shower of water came from the ceiling. He was then afraid that the air bubble was collapsing. But instead, he noticed that the water that fell like falls over the woman's image was not murky or dark like the seawater. It was fresh, clear, with a purity that shimmered in the dim light about him. There, in the mirrored reflection he did not see himself, but the living and breathing figure of the enchanting beauty in the mural. He staggered backward as, with a single step, a perfect white foot appeared out of the waterfall. It had been her, her figure, wreathed in a warm and comforting ethereal light that was born out of the shimmering water. He remembered her gentle and maternal smile, her fingers treading his darkening blonde locks. Then, with a slender white hand lovingly touching him under the chin, she led him after her. Even her movements were hypnotizing as they ascended the stairs, her raven tresses shimmering like starlight caught in the reflection of a midnight pool at the heart of a forest. He remembered following her trailing train of silk as one chasing the last luminous grasps of a pleasant dream.

He watched as a look of tragedy and the ghost of a terrible heartbreak crossed her features as she came to the side of her descendent daughter. She cupped the silver haired queen's bone cheeks and placed a deeply loving maternal kiss upon her ruinous brow. Then, gently, she reached for the blazing artifact about her neck. In turn, the angelic figure took the item which was near blinding in her grasp and approached him. A part of the boy wanted to retreat from it, but the look in the shining beauty's eyes told him that it was safe. Gently, she pressed the item in his hands, closing is fingers around the glowing talisman. She cupped her hands around his as they held the ancient artifact together. And after a moment, with a nodding smile, the small youth opened his fist to find the trinket had been remade. It was now a silver fob watch that bore "The Master's Wheel's" symbol inscribed. His astonishment was quelled by her slender hands that took the chain and slipped the item around his own neck as a queen who bestowed a medal to her champion. Her palms trailed his cheeks with a deep sorrow, as if feeling his burdened heart of all that had befallen him in life. Then, with the same and equal maternal kiss to his brow, the woman braced him to her in a deep hug of a mighty love. A voice of pure ethereal music echoed through his mind as slowly she disappeared in a growing light that enveloped them.

" _Rad- nin, mui astaldo tinu … Rad- nin."_

The gagged effort of the Earl's new attempt to escape had broken the sudden trance that fell about the boy. His mind trapped in a waking dream of shimmering pure water, heavenly light, and the most beautiful creature to ever trod the earth or nimbus of heaven's realm. But when the legs of the chair scratched obnoxiously against surface it took him out of his wonderous moment of touching the great reward that awaited the faithful beyond the circles of the world. For a moment, in such memories, a boy thought of a baby girl, stolen by the accursed plutonian hand from those who loved her most. Then, he was overcome with a pained peace at the thought that she was forever dancing in eternal joy and laughter in that luminous realm of beauty, light, and contentment with the likes of the angelic maiden. His eyes watered just a touch as he cleared his throat. The tide of light receded and the darkness of his world and memories of his baby sister returned, though now dampened with the tiniest of shimmering crystals of hope in those blackest of sands.

"I'll be damned, it's … It's the same woman!"

"What?" the kid was momentarily confused, wiping a stray tear with is brown suede sleeve. Suddenly, the old woman grabbed his lapel and pulled him close.

"I'm telling you, Cowboy, look …" Martha pointed from photo to illustration. "It's the same damn woman. This one and Lady Elfstone." She was shocked, confused, and about as excited as she had been for anything in twenty years. But when she looked to the kid, she found that not only was he not surprised, but that he was looking at her in a way that made the old belle feel self-conscious about her sudden enthusiasm.

"Well, you know …" She shrugged. "I thought I might mention it." She trailed off awkwardly, stepping back.

"Yeah, well if you're freaking out about that …" the boy retrieved his leather folder. "Then this will put some hair on your … uh …" He looked Martha up and down for a moment. "Well, it'll put hair on whatever it is you have, uh, down there." He cleared his throat with quirk of his eyebrows awkwardly. He took the spot next to the old woman, ignoring her two clenched fists placed on her hips with a deeply grudging glare directed at him.

"Alright …" The boy cleared the air. "So, about a century after the first Lord and Lady Grantham's deaths there was a Prince of Wallachia in Transylvania named Vlad that they called Dracul, which translates into "The Dragon"." The boy explained. "He married an English noble woman named Ilona, I don't know where she came from, and there isn't a lot known about her … most of her records were scrubbed by someone long ago. But there is one thing that survived the Catholic Churches purging of the House of Tepes. A Triptych of Ilona was painted by an artist named Dresden and was send as sort of a wedding present to her husband. I don't know where the original is, no one does, they think it got destroyed along with Alexander Grayson …"

"Oh yeah, I remember that moron. Industrialist. The dumb bastard blew up half of London with his newfangled electro power machine thingamajig. Cora and Robert were supposed to go to that unveiling, but Mary was kicking inside her, and they stayed home … about the last useful thing that girl ever did, and she wasn't even born yet."

"You'll hear no disagreement from me." The kid replied with an easy bitterness. "Either way, whether Grayson died with it or not, there is a record of it being sold to a Lord Davenport who was the uncle of Lord Anthony Strallen." He shrugged.

"Wait? The chud who left Edith at the alter …?" She blew out a bitter scoff. "Is there anyone who owned this thing that wasn't a prick?" She asked rhetorically. "I swear, having this triptych or whatever is more judgement on the owner at this point." She waved off.

The adventurer glared in a long pause. "Anyway …" He pushed past her rant. "There is an insurance claim on the painting from the auction house that it was bought from." The boy put another photograph next to the drawing of lady Elfstone over the page of the inscription.

"You can't be serious." Martha shook her head, scratching her ear.

The photograph showed a renaissance painting that was separated in three folding parts. On the left section was a slender maiden standing in an arch by a window which had the Castle Dracul in the distance upon a field of green. She had long tresses of raven hair and cerulean eyes. Upon her lithe and milky frame was a simple dress of pure white, one slender hand clutching the skirt. To the right was the same woman standing in the same arch but by a different window which was now viewing countryside farm fields of wheat upon sloping ground. This time she clutched a red yard of cloth over her white gown. Both depictions of the same woman from right to left faced one another, each one seemingly staring at the main painting in the center. Once more it was the same woman. But this time she was centered in front of a wall that was flanked by a piece of each adjacent window from left and right of the folding painting. She was regal with a brow crowned by a golden band and a matching braided chain necklace was about her pale neck. Garbed in a gown of red with thick white sleeves underneath, Ilona Tepes seemed a saint in the three painted depictions.

She also was the exact replica of both women that sat to her left on the puzzle desk.

"Her too?" Martha exclaimed. "Jesus Christ, Kid, how many of these broads are there?" She asked. But when she turned to the boy, he only blew out a breath with a look that was telling. "You're kidding me?!" She shot up straight from her hunched position to get a better look of the Transylvanian Triptych. The boy made a growled scoff as he pulled a new piece from his folder. This time it was a packet of Victorian London newspaper clippings.

"So, we flash forward nearly four-hundred years later to London in the 1890s …"

"Skip ahead "professor", I know the steps to this one, I was there ..."

"Sore subject?"

"Sore nostrils, everything smelt like piss, including Buckingham Palace. And there was shit everywhere … horse and human."

"Then you should've felt right at home with amount you shovel."

"Yeah, well, open wide, Cowboy, so you can eat some. It's on the house."

"With your monopoly, I bet it is …"

"…"

"…"

Both glaring at one another, the boy slapped the scrap book packet next to the photograph of the Triptych. On the front page of the paper was a black and white picture of a young woman with a bonnet of blue with matching ribbon, leather gloves, and long overcoat that covered a white blouse. In her arms was a collection of books against her breast, with a blue umbrella hooked on her wrist. Once more, though less surprising now, the beauty in the picture matched that of the previous women on the puzzle desk. Raven hair, milky skin, slim, with demure and innocent eyes that sparkled. But what was different was that a sudden light of recognition hit Martha Levinson as she studied the paper, flipping through articles.

"This is …" The adventurer began

"Wilhelmina Murray." The old woman finished for him. "Yeah, I remember her." She nodded. "We ran into one another about ten or twelve damn times when Cora was doing her first and second Season in London. She was the daughter of old Dr. William Murray. He ran Royal Bethlehem. I believe my husband and I made quite a sizeable contribution to expanding their Psych Ward. In fact, I believe they named the new wing after me that year."

"They named the Psych Ward in Royal Bethlehem after you?"

"Yeah …"

"…"

"…"

"Shut up!"

"I didn't say anything."

"No, but you were thinking it."

"Entry for the defense?"

"I'll allow it."

"I've been thinking that since we met."

"Fair enough. You know, us Southerners like our women religious … and just a bit mad."

"Your preachers gotta learn it from somewhere, I guess."

With a momentary understanding reached, Martha flipped through the packet. "Yeah, beautiful girl … she had brains too. She was the first female medical student at the University of London." She nodded. "I remember, she was always trailed by some young thing that lived in her front pocket. What was her name? Uh, hmm … Oh, right, Lucy! Lady Lucy Westenra, that's it. She was a sleek blonde piece of _bitch_ , that one. Seemed odd that the shark of a woman hung around with such a gorgeous little lamb." Martha shook her head.

"You seem to remember her rather well." The kid observed.

The old woman glared. "Like I said, I was there." She put the papers down. "Anyway, she was hard to forget. After Robert and Cora got engaged, they started to do fluff pieces in the New York papers and one of them involved Ms. Mina Murray." She shrugged.

"What was it?" The tone in the boy's voice was suddenly serious.

When the woman looked over, she saw that the mentioning of Cora and Mina in relation captured his attention. It seemed in that instance that there was something about this mystery that was personal to the boy. That underneath all the intrigue and research there was a very serious reason that he was chasing this "Princess in the Mirror". Something cold ran up Martha's spine in a maternal six sense. Slowly, she was beginning to realize that whatever this was, it had everything to do with her family, her little girls, all of them.

When Martha answered it was with a new caution. "They were mistaken for one another sometimes. They went to similar parties during the Season and reporters approached Mina, thinking her Cora. "The New Yorker" did a fun article about Cora's popularity in London and the mistaken identity craze between Cora and Mina. They even photographed them together … Listen, Cowboy, I shovel shit for a living, so I know what it smells like. Are you gonna tell me what's going on here?" She asked.

"She's dead …" He blurted out as if it was the answer to her question.

The old woman frowned. "What?" She didn't know why, but a deep pang of hurt filled her when she heard him. The boy, morosely, turned and retrieved something from his pack.

"How do you know?" She asked in a grimace.

"Because …" The boy held in reverence a long crimson scarf in his hands that looked tattered and damaged. "I was there." He parroted Martha's earlier statement, showing her the long red scarf that had once belonged to the now late Mina Murray.

"How did it happen?" She was baffled to be hearing this from such a young child.

"Professor James Moriarty … he kidnapped Ms. Murray and took her into the temple of the Dark Lord at the foot of the 'Meneltarma'".

"Wait, not the same Professor Moriarty … the eminent and world-famous Mathematician?"

"That's one word for him."

Then, aboard the Nautilus, he had been an old man of great burden of years. He was fragile, but not frail. He was wrinkled, but not grizzled. Yet, his mind remained sharpened and calculating, perhaps as deadly as one who carried a gun with great expertise. Fore age teaches much in wisdom and experience, and for a man once known as "The Napoleon of Crime", age may have withered the body, but opened new opportunities for a brain who saw the world in mathematical equation. Among the leaders of the expedition who had boarded the vessel to find that the Science Pirate and his Apprentice had broken the Professor out of the American Prison Island of Alcatraz, there had then been a mighty row of conflict. The use of Moriarty, their old enemy from their first adventures together, long before the boy's time, was unanimous at most positive among the old company of adventurers.

Captain Allan Quartermain would not have him, knowing that a criminal such as he, was simply waiting for the right moment to betray his old adversaries and murder them one by one. Also Ms. Murray felt that keeping such a dangerous villain aboard the vessel, near "The Good Doctor" on a long voyage was a game of Russian roulette that she would not play with the young apprentice's life. But Doctor Henry Jekyll had assured, albeit nervously, that 'The Beast' would keep, and 'he' would remember, with no fondness, the last time they met the professor. The Sikh Captain of the vessel was also in agreement with the Doctor, stating that they would never find the "White Lady" without the help of Professor Moriarty's calculations. He was an old man, dying of cancer, that would be kept in chains. They all, with the exception of Ms. Murray, agreed that the old man's jailer would be the person with the least authority on the clock work vessel.

It was long weeks of bringing simple dinners of sturgeon and white wine to a congenial old man. But the kid was curious of this figure whom he had read about in Doctor Watson's many publications of his and Mr. Holmes exploits. And he would admit, at first, there was a great bitterness. Sherlock Holmes had been a personal hero of the youths since he was very young on his aunt's knee. He remembered fondly many an afternoon listing to Doctor Watson's manuscripts while Lady Hexham edited them for publishing in her magazine. But it seemed that the boy's bitterness toward the Professor's answer for the 'Final Problem' at "The Reichenbach Falls" only intrigued him. Better yet, he was interested what a young boy, of 'obvious' noble birth was doing amongst pirates, an old explorer, cursed beauty, and the foulest of Beasts. But yet it wasn't truly his life story that he wanted to know, fore he was sure the boy would never surrender it. Instead, he was more interested in his mind, his character, who he 'really' was. And thus, though Mina advised him not too, there began a true battle of wits in a single, daily, game of chess played every day for three weeks.

They did not speak to one another. It was mutually agreed that the boy would tell no truths, and that the Professor would hear nothing that his intellect couldn't see through. The young explorer had a somewhat expanded knowledge of chess, having spent many a peaceful night playing against his step-grandfather in the study of Crawley House. His Grams would read quietly by the lamp, always clapping in 'bravo' no matter who won or lost at the end of it. But now, the boy, at first, felt out of his league. Fore in the first week, each chess match lasted but three bites into the sturgeon. The old man would not even say the word "checkmate", he'd simply smirk into his glass of white wine and dismiss "the Sikh's footman" with a shooing motion.

But by the end of the first week and into the second, the games began to last longer. It was clear that the boy was learning quickly from past mistakes. He avoided traps, feinted, and attacked elsewhere. He was bold and aggressive as any young man descended from great knights. But now he showed that he was not fool hardy in his overstore of valiantry. Though, the boy found increasing success in schemes of long odds that the Professor calculated, saw, but misjudged that no player would take such risky moves.

By the final week, the game had fallen away, and it truly became a battle of wits. The professor preyed on the roads in which he knew the boy would take and the ones that would seem the complete opposite of the right course of action. But in that medium, Moriarty still found himself caught off guard by C-level changes after 'A' and 'B" had gone exactly the way he expected. The kid had the uncanny ability to scramble the odds, to make nonsense moves come together in moving camouflage that the professor was, daily, finding harder and harder to detect. Till on the final day, when the first word was ever uttered between them during a match. It was a simple "Check" said by the youth. The old man, sturgeon untouched, wine drained already, looked up in shock. He was but two moves from winning again, with nothing the boy could do to stop it. But finally, in a move he did not anticipate, in this chaos of nonsense generated, the boy, the squire, came within striking distance of Professor James Moriarty's King.

Mina Murray burst in, her long red scarf fluttering behind her, as she pointed Captain Quartermain's elephant gun at the old man. In a fit of rage, the professor, though in the throes of winning once more, swiped the board off the table in a clatter that startled the young boy. The beautiful woman put her finger on the trigger of the fifty-caliber rifle pointed at the old villain's head. She dared 'the old fool' to give her the best present she's received in ages. But quickly, with a calming breath, Moriarty slicked back his thin strands of long white hair on his liver spotted head and ordered the "filthy little lesbian" to get this 'squire' out of his sight, and never again allow such a low creature come near him. The boy did as bid, but not before taking the best part of the Professor's sturgeon and popping it in his mouth with a smug adversarial grin as he left.

The young apprentice had not won even one chess match in three weeks. Yet, by sheer audacity, had he thoroughly unnerved the world's greatest criminal mind.

When the door closed, he found himself being grabbed by Ms. Murray. She asked if he was alright, if he was hurt, to which the young adventurer shrugged with nonchalant ease. Then, Mina dropped to her knees and took him in her arms, this woman he had not spoken but six words to in three weeks. But, in that moment, she held him tightly as if he was irreplaceable and precious to her. She had seen him in her dreams, not as he is now, but how he would be someday in the future. And she, or perhaps one of her past or future lives, maybe all of them, will love this man beyond all things. It seemed, in that confession, that there was someone else, someone he knew, or would know, speaking through her. Yet, the boy didn't understand what she meant, and she left in a fluster before she could explain it when Captain Quartermain had come. He was inquiring why his 'longtime partner' had taken his elephant gun but found her in tears with the boy in her arms. But when she stormed off, the old explorer turned and asked what had happened … but their young protégé had no idea.

But it was that warmth of her arms, of some great and impossible love that stretched like a long red string of destiny through the yawning silvery streams of infinity, which strengthen his resolve in solving this mystery.

"How did it happen …?"

The boy snapped out of his memory, still clutching Mina's scarf. There was a look of genuine sorrow in the face of the old woman. Mrs. Levinson was overwhelmed with information, especially the parts of distant names of fame from her days living in London. Some of them, such as Dr. Jekyll and Allan Quartermain, she hadn't heard of in many long years. Then there was Professor James Moriarty, who she couldn't fathom being a threat to a rabbit during a hunt, much less some grave monster who would murder such a lovely creature such as Ms. Murray. In her mind she saw her grasping Cora's hands at the late Lady Flintshire's ball with a big smile in fast friendship.

Martha could still remember the picture that they took for "The New Yorker". The photographer had asked for a rather serious portrait of the two beautiful women side by side, smoldering for the camera … and their male readership. But then, Cora had paid for just one more, a private one for just themselves. It showed the two young women arm and arm, smiling and laughing, living to the very last second the happiest days of their lives. Lady Lucy glowered off to the side Jealously, while Robert and Rosamund had checked his pocket watch in thinning patients. But ever there was something there that it seemed only they and Martha noticed. There was some deeper kinship between the two girls that lost touch long ago. But still, here at the end, she sensed that there would have still been a love of some sort, powerful and wholesome as one of close sisters. And in those memories of smiles and touching foreheads of giggling girls of true worth, did the old woman's heart sink to see the young adventurer clutch the last physical remains of record that Wilhelmina Murray had ever truly existed in this world.

"How did it happen … how did she … did she die? What happened in that Temple?" The woman asked.

"There's no way on Earth that I'd ever get into that with you." The kid replied stiffly, balling the scarf in his hands bitterly.

There was a sudden outrage in the old woman's voice. "Why not?!" There was a sense of entitlement to her. The boy paused only a moment.

"There's no power in Heaven or Hell that could force me to ever speak of the things I saw in that evil place. Also, maybe, it was because she died there, saving my life, and we left her and many of our companion's bodies to be crushed under a tidal wave, with whatever little of them remaining trapped in that vile ruin at the sport of its terrible creatures. But mostly it's because, she was my friend, and I loved her … and you, I just met."

When he turned there was a deep pain in his eyes, a heartbreak that no child should know, much less live to feel twice in a short lifetime. The woman wanted to argue the point, that after everything he had revealed to the woman, that _this_ was where he drew the line. But then she saw the sorrow and guilt in his face, worn on his sleeve for all to see. Mrs. Levinson had known of Mina Murray distantly and for a time when she was a girl, fresh faced and in love. But it was clear that the kid had known her intimately, had shared some adventure together, and was very fond of the woman. Thus, there was no part of her that pressed the debate any further. And when the boy put the scarf away, she knew that the discussion was now at an end concerning the unfortunate girl who Martha found herself mourning deeper than she thought possible.

She felt this way about all these young shinning stars in front of her, whose glimmer seemed to go out too fast in this world. Though, to a woman approaching her nineties, everyone seemed too young to go before her. But, still, she was yet to place why these young women on this desk, in particular, hurt her so badly. But she suspected she'd find out one way or the other and when she did … she wasn't sure she'd be able to live with it.

" _It's a comin, miss … it'a comin!"_

The exasperated glare constantly given to the kid before her was supported on the foundations of only the greatest affinity that one could hold. This seemed an increasingly dangerous business, but she found it useless to talk him out of anything that he set his mind too. He reminded her of Sybil in a lot of ways. You could tell that girl that she couldn't do something, but after two days of non-stop questions of why, she would do the thing anyway. And no matter the scorn of Robert and Cora, the girl would sit defiantly with her arms crossed, shouting back. In this there was an uncanny similarity not just in their shared fair face, but in the same inherent mistrust of authority and the status quo. In truth, as strange a happenstance that had befallen on this day, she would not deny that it took quite a fellow, young or old, to track down such a wild and fantastical conspiracy.

"Well …" She sighed. "You've showed me all this. Alright, so how is it possible?" She asked. "How is it that the same woman can keep appearing throughout history? Can you tell me that, Cowboy?" The old woman crossed her arms in a deeper puzzlement of what exactly she was looking at here.

The youth was quiet a long time at these same questions which had tormented him for months.

"No …" He finally answered.

It wasn't just specific to her recent questions or even past ones, but the current answer to all the questions that had been asked by others and himself. "No." He reiterated slowly, thoughtfully. But then, with arms crossed, a hand rubbing his chin, he looked back to the old woman.

"But I'm going to find out."

There was a pure determination and steel in his eyes. In him was a stalwart and courageous boldness that sparked something in Martha. It wasn't that Mrs. Levinson particularly believed or disbelieved the youth's stories of Lost Continents and Princesses in murals. But whatever it was about this child, there was no doubt that he had seen some things already in life, and yet, for however terrible they might have been … he still hadn't blinked. He was like Sybil in their shared likeness of face and spirit of uncompromising bravery. And yet he was as incredibly stubborn and flickered as Mary in all the best and worst ways.

And still Martha Levinson had not realized who it was who was standing before her.

_("Sive" – Celtic Woman)_

Just then the door to the library opened again. But this time, the old woman couldn't help but smirk pleasantly. Leaning heavily against the doorknob, glancing inside the room was a very pretty young girl. Her cerulean eyes matched the boy in front of Martha as they glanced around the library. Long tresses of luxurious raven hair were in perfect drop curls that were sown with white roses from Mr. Moseley's superb bloom. She wore a blue silken sun dress with white trimmings of lace and silver designs. The edition of the sapphire and shinning silver made her eyes almost glow in their sparkle on the grey spring afternoon. The girl was incredibly pale, showing not even a pinch of melanin. Yet her skin was soft as milk and shimmered in the light off her designer dress. About her white supple neck was a single thin black satin ribbon tied to complete her look. But Martha smirked when the girl's searching eyes fell on the kid who was too distracted to notice her. The biggest of the most cherishing smiles overcame her when glancing him standing there.

And from those eyes came the purest innocence from the greatest of loves.

The girl straightened her skirts and then, assuming the most unassuming of looks, she glided into the library. Placing her hands behind her back innocently, the girl half skipped, half danced through the room. She paused only once in sight of the captive in the middle of the library. The girl was taken by surprise, halting only a moment to glance the youth who watched her in a deep humiliation. It seemed that for even a girl so young, her loveliness was so notable that for a prideful young man to look foolish in her presence was like a stab of a blade whose splinters break off into the wound. Martha noticed, with great interest, that the look between young girl and tweeny prefect was with lasting recognition. It seemed that there was some history, however recent, between the two. There, in this familiarity there came a deeper shame from the boy to be found like this by this young heiress in particular. The woman realized that a bitter fear and anxiety creeped upon the youth's face. It was the way that Martha had seen other boys his age reacts when they accomplished some disaster in which would earn them a beating from a prick father who expected too much of a kid with too prestigious of a name for even mundanity.

But still the lovely beauty's pause wasn't terribly lasting, as Martha perceived this was probably not the weirdest thing that the girl had been exposed too in connection to the young adventurer's antics. There was something akin to the most superficial of compassion in the small pat she gave to the Earl of Warren's head that was reserved for one nervously petting a dodgy chained up hound. Then, she quickly darted from him in anxiety as if avoiding the wrathful and rabid snaps she was sure were to come on her heels. Even the girl sensed the building to meltdown within the prefect who glared with a new and burning shame for this girl who witnessed his emasculation and condescended to him in the throes of it. Never realizing that to a young girl, there was no shame, while such a state was life or death to a young boy of preteen age.

She seemed troubled, uncomfortable under such a hot gaze, while her lovely head was still craned the Earl's way as she came up to Martha. But when she turned back there was a nervous, but still terribly warm acknowledging smile given to the old woman. Such a gift made Mrs. Levinson's cynical heart melt, as was the magic the girl would always possess and be remembered for in darker days to come for those alive and yet to be born whom she would love forever.

But, then, the young girl's doubts and fears of hateful glares seemed to go away in the presence of the young explorer caught up in the deeper musings of such impossible questions he faced. Martha could almost hear and see the glowing of the girls heart the longer she whist longingly at the most dashing of bravest young lads she loved so. Then, when it seemed her heart would explode, the girl, with a wild Celt like yelp, leapt up onto the back of the startled young kid. She grappled her arms around his neck as she clung to him tightly.

"Get off!"

He snapped with rolled eyes when he was assailed with countless of the sweetest of little kisses. When she finally honored his angry and embarrassed requests, having about the same liking to the kisses as the Earl did the pat on the head, she got a shove out of his personal space. But this only made the pretty young thing grin innocently, once more placing her hands behind her back with a lifetime of intimate knowledge of the boy in front of her.

"Cad atá cearr leat?"

"Tá gealladh an earraigh tar éis grá a chur i mo chroí!"

"Anois tá tú díreach ag rá seafóid …" the boy grumped in retort at the girl's singsong and romantically dramatic answer to his original question as she draped herself over him once more, as Juliet Capulet might at the song of the Lark on the morrow of her wedding night.

Martha watched the two children in interest. Had she been Violet, or maybe even Robert, she'd imagine they'd have a conniption fit about the children speaking Gaelic in the house of the Lord of Grantham. Something she was sure they grudged good old Tom Branson for teaching them. But she found the effortless native fluidity between the two rather impressive for ones so young. She knew that Cora could speak French and Italian, since it had been Martha that had paid the best of the best for their lessons herself. But it had all been purely academic, and she was sure that the most help those lessons ever got her girl was knowing what not to order at London restaurants.

"Eirí as a bheith aisteach!"

Despite his annoyance there was the ghost of a smirk on the adventurer as he strained to push the girl off him again. For just a sequence, the darkness, toughness, and sadness, melted off the kid. For a flash, hand pushed up against the lovely girl's cheek, squinting away from her kissy face as she tried to cuddle to him, he was their age again. Martha felt a pang of sorrow in her glad smile to see the two giggling and wrestling children who clearly loved one another on a deeper level that was felt in their sheer interaction. Mrs. Levinson was sure that Violet would and has done everything in her power to separate the two children.

There was a clear and stark difference between them at their appearance. The girl's clothing and manner spoke to riches beyond accounting. While the kid seemed middle class, maybe even lower middle class, Americanized, or maybe just unprogrammed from British society. There was a rugged, salt of the earth, feel to the young adventurer which should've clashed with the prettiest of little ladies. Yet, here they were hugging off one another, the girl kissing his cheek, nose, and brow with giggles. But then, both Sybil and Mary had done it, so why should she be surprised in their combined daughter's pick of great loves?

Eventually the young adventurer pushed her back. "Nílimid i d'aonar!" He motioned to the old woman watching. Being reminded of Mrs. Levinson's presence, the prettiest of young things turned and smiled.

"Hello again, Grandmamma …"

She spoke perfect King's English with an incredibly polished accent of pure aristocracy. But in that same breath, she showed no reserve in emotion when she in turn gave Martha a deep hug. It was heartening to the old woman that even in the English upper classes, a grandchild still believed that any grandmother existed for the soul purpose of being hugged. A stereotype to which Martha was more than willing to perpetuate.

"Ms. Sybbie … and hello to you, ma'am."

Mrs. Levinson grudged herself for the overpowering feelings of pure love that quickly supplanted completely the once disappointment she perceived for Sybil Afton Branson's future. The girl was entirely sweet and made of the purest of Irish and English sugar. She pecked the top of her great-granddaughter's head, her hand stroking the glossy ringlets and roses that Anna Bates painstakingly crafted all morning. It felt like she was in a time vortex, for she felt again strongly what it was to hold her Cora again. And in that revelry, there was such a powerful intensity that resisted the idea of ever letting go of that memory or this angelic girl ever again. And having the right of an old granny now, she resolved that it would be long before she would resolve to let go of something so precious to her, despite only meeting her properly a few days prior. But to such a fierce emotion, the girl didn't seem to mind. She was a ray of light who basked and grew in the sun of other's love shining upon her. Eventually, laying her head against Martha's side, arms still wrapped around the woman, she turned toward the kid.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked looking at all the research upon the puzzle desk.

From her tone, which was filled with sarcastic disdain, one could only imagine that the young girl might have hissed at what she was looking at. There seemed to be some history of soreness at the sight of old leather-bound documents and ancient books. It was clear that they annoyed and fitted the girl's good nature at the very sight of them.

The kid rolled his eyes. "I would say yes … but, then, when aren't you?" he scoffed.

But to the insult, the girl gave a quite haughty yawn in mockery, still clinging to Martha. "Oh my, I'm about to fall asleep …" She pretended to almost faint.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" The kid sniped back.

"Don't you?" The girl had a tone of a spoiled princess. She then turned to Martha above. "Don't let him bore you Grandmamma … he says that all of this stuff is _really_ important, but he just uses it as an excuse, so he doesn't have to talk to anyone." She explained.

"I talk to people …" He argued. "People of the highest of quality." There was principle and dignity in his offended voice.

"Oh yeah?" She challenged snobbishly. "No one here even knows who you are." She pointed out.

The boy snorted. "Almost as if I prefer it that way." He retorted in annoyance. "Plus, if you're looking for people of quality, I wouldn't think to find them at an aristocrats house party, or anywhere in the upstairs of Downton Abbey." He countered his friend.

To this Martha made a noise of agreement. "Amen to that, Cowboy." There was bitter begrudgement of over half a century on her face.

"Case and point …" He then motioned his head to Sybbie and Martha distractedly with the most intended of insults.

In response, both old woman and young girl exchanged commiserating glares. After a pause, Sybbie broke their embrace and strutted up to the boy who busied himself with papers. Martha had to admit that the girl put on airs better than anyone and wore them so naturally that one might have thought her the fairy princess she thought she was. Mrs. Levinson always wondered what a little girl raised by Mary and Cora would look like, now she saw it. Beautiful, entitled, graceful, spoiled, and so full of love it was spilling everywhere. She was the total opposite of the kid, and yet they were magnetic together. There really were no people on earth whose love was quite visible as the two children before her. It was near primal in the same way that twins interacted. They seemed two opposite sides of the same coin, able to read one another's mind so openly.

The young girl sashayed up to the boy and glowered playfully at him with mocking pout. "Mr. Serious over here, with his maps and books … OW!" She was frivolously fluffing and roughly grabbing at his documents till the kid slapped her hand away without breaking his concentration over the new unearthed history. She gave him a jab in the hieroglyph on his jacket arm to which he turned and blew air in her face. Making sure her hair was still in place, Sybbie turned and glowered at Martha.

"There is a reason that no one but the servants, tenants, and poor of the county talk to him. Every time we invite him to come out with us, to have some real fun, he's got his nose in another book. And even when we stay at his house for the weekend, he pours over ancient maps and scrolls when he thinks we don't notice. He is by far the least fun person anyone could ever 'stand' to be around." She turned and glared, looking every bit Robert and Cora's crown jewel and yet sounding too much like Mary.

Martha could see that she, like her 'mama', still failed to realize that no matter how many opulent house and garden parties for county society they throw, that the most important people to the estate were "the Cowboy's" friends. Martha was also silent in pointing out that if the kid was that unfun to be around, why did Sybbie always spend time with him? The answer was that the girl was playing the façade, acting that he was a burden to be around. But in reality, the girl was jealous that he wasn't spending every waking second with her, instead of his charts and books.

The boy looked up from his organizing. "She talks a lot of crud, but she's just deflecting …" He motioned to the girl next to him. Immediately, as if knowing what he was going to say, Sybbie tried to put her hands over his mouth. They struggled a moment till he held her arms outstretched.

"éirigh as!" He grunted as the girl finally gave up, dropping her arms to her side. "She's got a ton of notebooks filled with sketches." He revealed. The girl suddenly lost all of her debutante airs and aristocratic confidence, going rigid and quiet.

"Oh, I didn't know you were an artist?" Martha seemed supportive. But Sybbie only shrugged shyly, reaching into the kid's shirt and pulling out his fob watch about its ancient chain. Much to the old woman's surprise, the youth didn't seem to stop her as she traced the circles of the engraved symbol of his swordsmanship discipline. When he saw that the girl wasn't going to answer he did it for her.

"No, there not really drawings for art …" He frowned watching Sybbie cherish his silvery artifact demurely.

"They're designs …" the girl offered quietly.

"Oh, like for clothing?" Mrs. Levinson asked. "I'm sure your mama would like that very much, being a model …" She began but was cut off.

"No …" the boy shook his head. "They're engineering designs … you know like car engines?" He explained.

To this unknown tidbit the old woman was taken by complete surprise. "Really?" She asked, turning to the girl who sweetly sank a little deeper in embarrassment, tinkering even more with the watch around her best friend's neck.

"You know how the Duchess's car broke down?" The kid asked.

"Christ knows … literally, I'm sure she told him all about it when she got done telling us for nine damn hours."

"Sybbie fixed it for her."

Once more Martha Levinson was shocked silent, turning her full gaze to her Great-Granddaughter who actually shrank under it. "Get outta here, baby … I didn't know you could do anything like that." She said in admiration.

There was the tiniest of proud smirks. "Daddy taught me a little, and the rest just comes easy … Mama and Mr. Carson don't think it lady like. But then they look the other way when mama's beauty contraptions break down or when other machines downstairs in the house need fixing." Sybbie explained.

There was a terrible sense of logic to Sybil Branson all of the sudden. Martha Levinson understood why she was the way she was with everyone. On the surface, and maybe a little underneath, she was an entitled debutante, who was occasionally spoiled. But really it was that she was afraid. Sybil Branson was terrified that people would know that underneath her beauty and posh manners, there hid a secret mechanical prodigy, an engineering genius, and all the other girls would think her a freak. Though, she vigorously defended Marigold from those same bullies, she herself did not want to become the hunted by the gaggles of cold hearted and snobbish aristocratic little girls, not when she was fast becoming their queen. It also explained her attitude toward the kid. She resented his adventuring ways, out of fear that she'd catch the blow back in the discovery that she truly loved him above everything.

Yet, the paradox remained that Sybbie loved the young explorer so much, _because_ , he remained unrestrained, unimpressed, and undaunted by societies rules and appearances. He did what he wanted, liked what he wanted, and loved who he wanted. And there was no amount of noble titles which had the authority, in his own mind, to tell him different. Thus, maybe somewhere in her luminous soul Sybbie felt the ghost of her real mother in the boy's face and heart, making her cling so desperately to them both.

But more to the point, now, more than ever, the old woman began to realize that perhaps she was wrong about some things. Perhaps, not all things, or even most things, but she could see that she was too quick to judge matters. Though she saw that there was no grit in the girl. In fact, she could see that there was the complete opposite. Her poor little girl seemed sweet, filled with love and laughter, but perhaps was the most fragile thing of the greatest worth in this entire manor house. But still, her genius was nothing to scoff at, she might say. It showed that there was but a chance that this girl, as conflicted and torn apart as she was in fear of societal judgement, would not be an ingrate on airs. That deep down there was something of true worth inside that fragile girl that she might harness to greatness someday. And that brought her great-grandmother some small comfort as she gazed upon her with a greater love and pride than ever before.

But then, in that very moment … she saw it.

It was in Sybbie's smile as she glanced up a little stronger, a little more confident in Martha's encouragement. In sight behind her, propped up on the puzzle desk, was the ancient chronicle with the gorgeous illustration of Lady Elfstone, the girl's direct ancestor. Then, it made sense, it all came together if not in her mind, then certainly in her heart and soul. In that one instant, when her heart was warmed, she knew now why each one of the women upon the desk drew her with maternal instinct. Martha was speechless, her mouth open, as she stared at the young girl who treasured the watch in wonder while the boy looked on.

"Sybbie … can you come here, baby?"

The girl frowned in puzzlement gliding toward the old woman's hands. It was the dress of sapphire and silver, the white roses abloom she wore in her glossy raven tresses, and the morning tide of a beauty unrivaled but for golden and graceful Marigold only. She gently took the girl's delicate face in her hands and looked into her near glowing cerulean eyes that were inquisitive. Then, it was clear as day who she was looking at.

It began in an enchanted forest with an angelic maiden of pre-history. Then, thousands of years later, came a lost, broken hearted, and desperate Princess of Byzantium, the last of that ancient race. There was Ilona Tepes, finer than all of the gold and silver in Wallachia, burned at the stake for her husband's sins. Afterward came Mina Murray, kind, smart, and a tragic pawn in many a game of worldly consequence who died in the darkness of an evil temple many leagues under the fathom's abyss. And now, raised gently and with boundless love in the fairy halls of Downton Abbey, there was Ms. Sybil Afton Branson.

And once more, as it was that terrible afternoon in New Orleans, a great fear overtook Martha Levinson.

Even as her thumb rubbed the little girl's cheekbone cherishingly, the old woman looked up to the kid who stood off to the side clasping his fob watch in hand. Then, she saw the recognition in his blue eyes of her finally seeing what he had known all along. There were so many things unspoken in one acknowledging glance that drew both back to the pictures. Then, it was clear why the boy had done all of this, why he was so terribly invested in finding the answers to this repeating curse of doom or fate.

He had seen it immediately when he came back home, when he first sat with her at their place by the creek, Marigold at their side. The moon was like a lantern in the light pricked sable sky while the children walked by the creek bank. The two little girls giggling and dancing in the cool starlight, relishing the silvery orbs profound illumination on the world of night about them. That night the two young girls, wearing their new gowns, had been presented to the King and Queen, Sybbie had sang for them, Marigold had danced, and they received a royal standing ovation. It had been a magical moment, a magical night, and they had slipped out of Downton to basic in the immortality of their glory upon this night that they hoped would last forever. Then, out of breath, the raven-haired girl halted and turned to look at her best friend who trailed thoughtfully. While they had their new gowns, had met the King and Queen, and preformed to great success and adoration. Their beloved best friend had finally, after two whole months missing, had finally returned home that very evening. Yet, while the girls laughed and danced about him, he was in the gravest of difficulty finding a way to cope with all the things of wonder and horror seen in the sunken capital of the Ancient Kingdom of _Westernesse_. But his brooding was cut short when he looked up as the wind had caught her glossy curls sown with flowers, the moonlight giving it a sparkling twinkle. He was then stricken in her smile, her fair skin, and glimmer in their matching eyes. For a moment he was standing in the throne room of the Sea Kings of Old. The last words of Mina Murray echoing in his head.

It was a great labor, a secret mission, and a case of lonesome obsession. Whatever tormented him, the chief of these emotions which drove him on was love and fear. He knew of the fate of all these women who had shared a greater destiny and doom. And it was by great love that he feared for Sybbie's very future. He knew that whatever waited for her, there was greatness mingled with a matching sorrow whose ending was that of despair and ruin. What strength was in the boy, however little he knew of in himself, despite what others saw in great store, he would not allow these terrible things to happen to her. With all his power, he vowed to protect one of whom he cherished above all things left to him in this would not fail to save a girl he loved, not this time …

Never. Again.

* * *

**Entr'acte Music**

"The Song of Beren and Luthien" - Clamavi De Profundis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual Guide:
> 
> The Expedition Party:   
> "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" – Art by 'Adam Hughes'
> 
> The Black Dragon & Lady Elfstone :  
> "Beren and Luthien in Tol Galen" – Painted by SaMo-art
> 
> The White Lady:  
> "Elwing" - Painted by 'Elena Ekukanova'
> 
> The Princess of the Mural:  
> "Luthien Tinuviel"- Painted by 'Elena Ekukanova'
> 
> Ilona Tepes:  
> "Ilona Dresden Triptych"
> 
> Ms. Mina Murray:  
> "Mina Murray" – NBC/ Universal Television Stills "Dracula" (2013)  
> "Mina Murray" – Art by 'Adam Hughes'


	3. Part III

Just then, the door swung open for the fourth time. They turned to find a slender figure with a look of pure maternal steel and no small degree of exasperation on her mature face. Lady Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham, wore a silver metallic silk dress with a caped collar with twin horizontal stripes of blue. Her raven curls were pinned in stylish design right out of a glamour magazine. In her middle-aged years she was still quite beautiful, not yet coming to the age when the superlatives of "Graceful" and "Handsome" was to be used. There was flurries of deeply hidden grays in her hair that were yet to be snow drifts. But the lines at the corner of her mouth were quite visible as her jaw clenched tightly. Her piercing blue eyes, to which the two children in the room shared uncanny likeness, were tired and wild in deeply suppressed anger. Cora immediately placed her back in brace on the library door that she shut with her rear end with stern authority. There was a menacing tilt to her head while her gaze was fixed with great weight upon the boy on the other side of the room.

With Tea to be served in five minutes she looked out at the library in a great astonishment. There was a beat up and trussed up Earl tied to a chair by the refreshment table. Right in the center of the room was a large heaped pile of Lady Mary's silky and satiny knickers for all to see in all their absurdly high priced and obscenely scandalous glory. The sofa, matching ottoman, and rug were stained with white dust which was now everywhere on the right side of the small library. There were centuries old leather-bound scrolls, letters, and books stacked, along with an entire panel from the bottom of one of the bookshelves tossed thoughtlessly on the already stained sofa. The entire place was a disaster, as if a dust bomb had gone off with absolute violence. And all of it originating from a single young boy with grown out blackening blonde curls, which would match her own in few years. He wore a mysterious jacket of suede like material that he had already defaced by stitching an ancient Hieroglyph on the arm. With jacket collar done up, Lady Grantham couldn't yet decide if it gave him either a daring dash or look of delinquency. The boy in question, that she loathly had every personal responsibility for, had his hands in those same pockets watching her in complete oblivion of what he had done to his surroundings.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

Cora hissed with a passionate whisper that seemed a painful pull of her own reins to guard her emotions. The young adventurer took a moment to look her up and down, glancing at her borderline manic appearance with an accusatory dubiousness, as if she burst into the room wearing a Latin basket of fruit upon her head.

"Yeah … probably a little bit." He said with a self-reflective quirk of one of his mother's inherited eyebrows.

"Don't!"

Martha was impressed by the frigid flame in her daughters' eyes as she took an aggressive stride toward the boy. "Don't you dare test me, not right now!" She pointed angrily. Cora was all gritted teeth, tense pale neck, and wild eyes. But still she kept her voice to a pleasant tone as if not to startle the horses, so to speak.

"What in particular about right now has got your goat, Cora?" Martha asked in sarcastic mockery, petting a nervous Sybbie. It would seem that this was not the Granny that the young girl had ever known. Yet, from the unaffected and ease in posture of the kid, this was certainly a Lady Cora he knew quite a bit.

"Not now, Mother!" She snarled at Martha as she stormed into the library.

But she got no response from Mrs. Levinson. In fact, Martha was rather enjoying her daughter's wedding waltz at the edges of sanity's cliff. For once, her little girl got a taste of what it actually was like to parent children. She thought it awfully convenient the amount of 'know it all' nannies that Robert and Violet had hired for Mary and Edith. Though, they might have wanted to get that money back where Edith was concerned. And, to be unfair, While Cora had raised Sybil without nanny or governess, she also could pawn her off on Mary and Edith when she "wasn't up to it" … not to mention that their baby Sybil was practically such a saint that even Martha wanted to take her home. But now, with no nannies, no governesses, and certainly no Sybil, Cora finally knew the certifiable insanity that overcomes a woman when raising a child with "character". And it was nice to see her fairy princess was actually human, and on occasion, wanted to murder smart mouthed children, just like everyone else.

Cora immediately stormed over to the Earl of Warren who was bucking his hips, hopping his chair in anticipation of his freedom. "I've got a house filled with company!" She snarled at the boy as she untied the prefect's wrist binding of women's stockings. "And that is when you decide to do this …!" She strained to loosen the rough spun jumping rope. "Ah, Anna running messages back and forth like a hostage negotiator … in hear shot of … Ah! Lady Bagshaw!" Cora yanked hard, too hard; the stress of hostess being taken out on the captive's bindings. "Thomas walking around the house with knickers on display … On display in front of everyone! The Duchess even asking about the brand … Women of title, of nobility, talking about MARY'S KNICKERS! UGH!" Cora wildly tugged on the rope.

"To be fair …" Martha offered. "Do you think that there isn't an aristocrat in your Empire who hasn't seen Mary's panties at some point?"

"Mother!"

"Alright, alright, girl, I'm just trying to help …"

"UGRR … HUEH, HUEH, when have you ever done that?!"

"Oh, I don't know, when your head got stuck IN MY BIRTH CANAL!"

"You told Daddy to cut it off!"

"People say things in the birthing bed, Cora … you should know that."

"Yes, thing like "OW", "Breathe", and "Is she alright?" Not calling for your husband to cut off the baby's head, mother!"

"Sure, but he didn't …"

"You don't get credit for that!"

"I let you keep your head, we turned you, and we, uh, well we found a solution, didn't we? … I mean it's not like there was any lasting effects growing up."

"You thought I was retarded!"

"Yes, but functioning …"

"That doesn't make it better!"

"Well, I once knew an old Traiteur growing up in New Orleans who told me that babies who come into this world ass first were a 'special' kind. And it was pretty obvious very early you weren't any damn genius, little girl …"

Cora suddenly grabbed a knife off a tray near the toast and butter. "Mother! Be. Quiet." She pointed the knife at Martha. But the old woman wasn't alarmed, in fact she tried hard not to crack up at her perfect and poor little girl so completely frazzled for the first time in her life.

With gritted teeth Lady Grantham began to saw Sybbie's jumping rope with the jam stained blade. As she did The Eton chap's chair was rocking from the force of the stressed-out woman's cutting. The youth's eyes were wide as silver dollars at the reckless rage in which the knife was being handled, inches from his back.

"Granny …"

"Not now, darling …"

"No, Granny …"

"Ugh, sweety, not now!

"But, uh, Granny …"

"Yes! What? What is it, Sybbie?!"

"That's a butter knife."

Slowly, but surely, Cora stopped cutting and lifted the knife covered in mixture of strawberry jam and butter that had been scratched on toast. When she looked down at her handy work, Lady Grantham found an unbroken nor cut jumping rope, now slathered in Mrs. Patmore's famous jelly. In response, the woman let out a long drawn out sigh, eyes closed harshly, as if attempting to center herself. After a long pause she slammed the knife down on the aluminum tray and turned wrathfully to the kid who was leaning against a gilded column by Lord Grantham's desk, his hands still in jacket pockets as he watched with amusement.

"Get over here …!" Cora demanded.

But she saw a sudden fire of defiance in his eyes and a rigid stance. Out of everyone in the house, Cora knew what it stemmed from. It was a multi-layered issue with this single young Lord versus _her_ young explorer. She was fully aware of his behavior toward Marigold, and the things he had said to her. Yet, sadly, there wasn't much they could do about it. If he had been any other snot nosed brat, she might turn him out, send him packing back for Eton. But, alas, the 'continental' young chap, who played at being worldly and sophisticated was the Earl of Warren. Moreover, he held the titled position of a fellow House of the Imperial Court, and there was a certain etiquette and protocol to these things. Yet, she also knew that the hatred between the two youths ran so much deeper and poignantly than words spoken to Marigold in insult and scorn. But this was certainly not how she wanted her boy to handle this growing rivalry.

More importantly, Cora could not bear for him to give 'them' the satisfaction of being proven right about all the things they say about her boy these days.

"NOW!"

The Countess put all the command and steel of a true mother, the closest the kid had, in her voice. Martha was impressed of with it. After all these years, all the nannies, and pleasantry, she didn't think Cora had it in her to, as Martha's father would say, _"keep'em moving with the bayonet"_. Lady Grantham had always saw herself as her daughters' and granddaughters' friend, their safety net in which boundless love and security could be found. But it seemed, for the first time in her life, the woman was playing a many faceted roles to the kid. She was not just his guardian. She wasn't just his mother. Lady Cora was this boys Guardian, mother, father, and mentor of civilization. Under no circumstances, at any point, was Lady Cora Crawley the boy's friend.

She was his parent … his only parent.

In her daughter's voice she heard the stern echo of Mr. Levinson, knowing that it was done on purpose. There wasn't the loving, doting, or spoiling Granny that Sybbie and Marigold knew. There was a woman who punished, lectured, yelled at, and loved fundamentally to her very core. It was not a love that was bore more or less than she had for any of her girls. But there was clear difference in the gritty familiarity and closeness of the two that the woman did not, and would not, have with any of her other children.

It was in that seemingly patriarchal voice, in the absolute authority of a paternal relationship, that the boy, with every protest in his being, reluctantly shoved himself off the column. Lady Grantham did not blink, hands clasped together as she glared with iron hand as the boy slowly trudged behind the still gagged youth. He paused only a moment, glaring daggers at Cora's unshakable stone façade. Without even looking, matching ill-favored tempers with his only parental figure, the kid grabbed a wood toggled handle of the jumping rope. With a twist and a tug at an odd angle, the knots of the rope began to slip free as if they were falling dominos in the slithering sound of zipping friction. Eventually, in one smooth motion, the long rope fell in a loose halo at the chair's feet. There was a sudden look of disarmament on the Countess's face at the smooth ease of something that she thought might be impossible to untie.

"Huh …"

"Damn …" Maratha exclaimed quietly. "Think we outta applause?" She asked Sybbie.

THUNK!

But just as the spoiled aristocrat was removing his gag, his rival, in a show of deep hate, upturned the chair from under him. The youth went crashing on the floor, face planting in the ripples of the snagged rug. Incensed, the Earl of Warren quickly bound to his feet in aggression, while the kid threw Tom Branson's favorite chair to the side with a loud thud of wood which caught the attention of everyone outside in the great hall. Both boys squared up against one another, but before any blows could be thrown, Lady Grantham got in between them.

"Enough!" Lady Cora shouted. With one arm she barred the Earl, and with the other hand she had her boy by his lapel, holding him to arms-length.

"You're gonna regret that, Peter Rabbit!" The Eton prefect growled hatefully, pushing against Lady Grantham's barred forearm.

"Come and get it, _precious_!" The kid replied with an added sting to the mocking nickname he saddled to the Lordling.

Cora struggled to keep the two boys apart. Meanwhile, Sybbie coward against an incredibly interested Martha at this turn of events. She had to admit that the kid upturning the Earl's chair was an underhanded move. But then, the Earl was a little punk who made her poor Marigold cry in the first place ... so, in retrospect, Mrs. Levinson wasn't above overlooking a few cheap shots from the back when the referee wasn't particularly observant.

"I want no more of this!" Cora said. She then turned to the kid in her grip. "Do you hear me? No more!" She used the patriarchal voice, even giving the younger of the two a shake of sobriety.

The kid responded by breaking Cora's grip on his jacket, straightening it facetiously. But he obeyed her strict order, making no move against the Earl. When she saw that her boy had halted hostilities, she turned and felt assured that it was acquiesced by the opposite side. With a deep breath, Cora removed the dividers and stepped back.

"Now shake hands and let this be done." Cora motioned for the two of them to let a gentlemanly ending be the final chapter … for now.

But when she turned for Martha's approval all she got was a shake of a red-haired woman's head that spoke to the continued insistence and belief that her daughter was, indeed, retarded. And when she turned back, the elegant countess saw, much to her exasperation, that she had demanded too much. Both youths looked at one another with a deep distain of a fiery hate.

"I'm not gonna touch this … _filthy_ half-breed!" The Earl spoke the derogatory label he placed on the kid as if he was spitting.

It was clear that the insinuation of the boy's pastoral and heroic middle-class father 'defiling' his beautiful aristocratic mother's noble blood set ablaze a new fire in his heart. It seemed that even, in that moment, their mediator's hand twitched as if she were to strike the boy herself. There were a lot of discourtesies that Lady Cora was willing to swallow to stand on ceremony of this world she married into. But it was very hard to stand by and allow someone to besmirch and insult those whom she loved above all things, due to an equal title of nobility. The insult of one grandbaby she could, hardly, tolerate … but the attempted shaming of two of her babies was too far for the glamorous American Countess. But just as something was about to give in the teetering discipline of Lady Grantham, she was saved.

"I, uh, I wouldn't shake that either, Cowboy …" Martha called out. "Knowing what we know about our 'blood hound' over here, you have no idea where that hand has been recently." She advised.

It was unknown, in a rush of angry anxiety, what hurt more. The insult and accusation by Mrs. Levinson, which stabbed the youth in the heart like a well-placed point of a dueling rapier. Or perhaps the worse was the sudden exasperation of Lady Grantham, who, still, couldn't hide the girlish and rye smirk at the comment. Though, maybe the most damage came from the snort of humor that came from his adversary. The anger over the distain given to his parent's star-crossed love fell away. Then, the enemy of all prepubescent gentlemen, weighed his foe in a glance and found him wanting. With a simple and dismissive wave of his hand, like he was tossing rubbish in a bin, the boy began to walk away from the Eton prefect to gather his research and silky 'plunder'. The dismissal, the arrogance of someone like 'him', to think that he, the Earl of Warren, was not worth his time or energy seemed unthinkable, a challenge to a sacred religious belief.

"You better watch your back, Peter Rabbit!" He pursued the younger a step or two. "You just might find yourself alone in London one day, only to find the gallant gentlemen of the "Eton Bells and Trials Hellfire Club" in your shadow, watching your every move, you ill-bred mongrel!" He threatened with pure loathing through his teeth.

Cora felt her heart sink just a moment. Of this young 'gentlemen's club' that the youth invoked the name, she had known it to be the very one that Robert had help found as a youth himself at Eton. It was among his many accomplishments and fondest memories of his time in those hallowed halls of his childhood. And greater still, there was a time in which her husband had talked excitedly about a future in which their boy would be a member of that same group which he had founded and built with Shrimpie and the other 'old chaps'. How long had he dreamt of being there at his induction, to pass something down to the boy that he had once doted on so proudly, his very own heir. Now, with a heavy heart, it was heard in the halls of Downton itself that same boy being threatened of ambush and violence by the members of that same club. But, more depressing still, was the knowledge that Robert Crawley did not want their boy in the club he founded, nor associated with anything to do with his legacy or achievements. It was in this reflection that it occurred to Cora that much had gone sideways in their life in the last few years, and in these dark times …

Sometimes, The Countess of Grantham wondered if she was not in some bad dream that was never ending.

"Hah!" Her boy let out a mocking guffaw as he turned back around. "I'm so incredibly scared …" he taunted as he approached again. "I mean, what might happen if I end up alone on some cobble stone street, surrounded by Georgian buildings hanging with ivy, and well-manicured lawns? I might be surrounded by a group of loser fruitcakes in top hats and tails who recite dumb poetry and fake history on the off chance that someday some Hanoverian tyrant might give them royal permission to wipe his ass! I mean, I'd be in so much danger then, you fancy boys could **bore me to death!** "

There was a multi-faceted hatred that ran soul deep inside one that was so young. In his voice there was the ghost of Isobel Grey, Lady Merton, who had forever questioned the status quo and taught her grandson, who she found herself raising for the last couple of years, much of her prospective. There was also in their sight the apprentice of a great and mighty corsair of science. In his clockwork vessel, which traveled across and underneath every ocean and sea, the bold villain of old carried a hatred for the British Empire and its false kings and queens. Both of whom, under the flags of the East Indian Trading Company, had invaded his home, burnt his ancestral kingdom to the ground, and had murdered his wife and daughters. In these things, even a century later, the prince had still not forgotten such barbarous actions under the direction of the Hanoverian Usurpers. It made no matter if they changed their name to "Winsor" in order to sound English, they were still the German tyrants whose queens bore his father's jewel upon their crowns, like gutter snipe cutthroats preening as royalty. And this combination of the liberal values of Lady Merton and the taught prejudices of a mad genius's everlasting hatred for the Royal House of Winsor had influenced much of the boy's advanced education. Though, he bore no hatred against Britain, her history, or people. But against the false German monarchs and their simpering aristocracy, whom he would question and detest with a lifelong prejudice, there would always be a very fragile ceasefire. Thus, in the boy, who was the reunification of the stray bloodlines of the House of Grantham made flesh, there was reawakened the first and oldest trait of his ancestral House since the days of the 'Black Dragon'. And that would always be a predilection for battle in the name of rebellion against false kings upon the English throne.

But perhaps the largest factor to this bitter grudge was simply that these Winsor Kings, and their ceremony, etiquette, and royal court had meant much to his family, too much. In truth, they had covered themselves in these regal and cultural traditions with envy and greed, as far as the boy was concerned. The summons of a King in Buckingham Palace, the glamour of a royal dinner in Downton's halls, and the gilded parade down the village street, it had meant more to them than that of their own children's welfare. They all thought themselves too important, too essential, to care, to be associated with one who had fallen out of favor. Thus, when he entered the halls of a manor house to which he was master, yet, was cast out from years prior, not one of their courtier guests knew who he was, or why he was even allowed inside.

But worse still, in chase of favor from the Royal commendations did Lord Grantham and Lady Mary bestow much attention and patronship to the future lords of many a hallowed private academy. For years now, since the boy had been evicted, had these peacocking 'young chaps' strutted the halls of Downton Abbey like guests who leave their shoes by the fire, put their bare feet up, and ring for service as if they were Lords of the manor. They helped themselves to her hospitality, her secrets, her prestige, and the young and beautiful flowers cultivated and reared so gently innocent. While greedily, did they make themselves at home and hoard these fine young girls to themselves, the house's true master was given perimeters. He was often set against in his coming by reluctant footmen's guard. The family would risk no scandal by even the slightest chance the 'intruder' might be recognized by a guest, and the world would know their shame. They saw him as wild, uncivilized, and full of vile heresy. But the truth was plain to the boy that these were just words, excuses …

Years later, though they'd never admit it, many of his own family still blamed him for the death of a baby girl he failed to save one fateful Christmas Eve morning.

But these things, this burning fire, was not known to the Earl of Warren. To him, he could not even think straight, could not fathom what he had just heard. All of his life these things, which the adventurer had mocked him for with well-placed darts of venom, had been the golden standard of a life to have. Since he could remember, he had been raised, told, and schemed into this position. To be the Earl of Warren, the true Earl, he had to get into Eton, he must be a part of the "Bells and Trials Hellfire Club". It was just what was done.

From here, he must find a way into Cambridge or Oxford, he must marry a rich heiress to reverse the fortunes of a pile of debts left by a homosexual uncle who preferred the life of a sailor, for what his Granny says were, "obvious reasons". He must have the favor of the King, both current and new when it was time. This was the burden of the highest of greatness that a man of such power and providence could achieve. There was no higher purpose in the entire world, to be seated at the King's table, to be fostered on holidays at Lord Grantham's country estate filled with beauty of both scenery and female company. He was truly the tip of the spear of all worldly splendor.

Yet, now, for the first time, he had been made naked. His life, his purpose, and meaning, it was all wholesale mocked as trivial. The Earl of Warren found himself feeling as if his title and societal position was comparable to that of an immigrant dish washer in Soho. All these grand traditions and ceremony that they all lived their life by, which merited reverence, was made to look a fool. To this insignificant cur, of low and advantageous breeding, he had lobed a brick and shattered some illusion which the Prefect still hadn't seen come down. But, yet, his insults to everything the Eton chap held himself so high above, made him feel so suddenly ridiculous.

His rounded freckled face was awash once more with a deep red blush. There was a hot feeling of shame that came over him, as his mind blanked with the impossibility of what had been said. His response to the mockery seemed that of a religious fundamentalist. Never before had his beliefs been challenged and dismissed. It didn't occur to him that he might be wrong. He never once thought that there might be more to a man than his title, or the inherited belief that such things by breeding gave him a keen moral authority and sophistication that dwarfed those of the common classes. Indeed, the young Earl of Warren had but a moment to ponder such things of complication and enlightenment. But in the end, driven by the humiliation and mockery, he instead came to another conclusion. And this was simply that the Adventurer in front of him was not just wrong, not just hateful …

But, indeed, truly evil.

Ignoring all doubts, he, instead, put such a wonderfully 'moral' and 'righteous' mind to work on the justification of what would happen next. Long had the Eton Prefect known of this half-breed mongrel that lived on the fringes of Downton Abbey. He was a burden to all in the house, which he knew they could do without. The Earl had born witness to many a trip to London, holiday getaway, or a simple picnic being squandered by the slave like responsibility of Ladies Grantham and Hexham to the boy who did not live at Downton. Yet, he was still to be taken care of, watched, as if he was master. Long in loathing and frustration was he held by Lord Grantham who felt cheated of his rightful time with his beloved, as she waited hand and foot for this ragged rustic. There was much in sympathy that the Prefect bestowed upon the man who was honorable to a fault, and the picture of moral guidance. But it seemed that much of the burdens of this Lord was born from this uncultured rebel who threatened the honest man's very world from the fringes of his own kingdom. Often would Lord Grantham be seen, looking wistful out a window with much weighted guilt of some melancholy self-reflection of his own transgressions. To Lord Warren, this was unacceptable for a mentor of such unimpeachable character. Surely, whatever fault Robert Crawley felt strongly of this situation which he saw was his own making, it was unjustly put there by the bold and villainous half-breed's failings.

But his sin of grave evil could be looked for no further than that of the many troubles of Lady Mary Josephine Talbot. Cold, pale, and withered hollow, there was an emptiness in such a great beauty. The Earl of Warren loved her, had perhaps loved her his entire life. In his visits, then fostering, he would come to her, offering his service at need to her pleasure. Her red tinted amber eyes, which were always drawn out toward the village, toward Crawley House with bitterness and soul-clenching longing, would lighten at his manner. There was a glow in her eye, sharp and bright, as the striking of flint that sparks.

It began slowly, built in years. But little by little, did this relationship grow. Finding herself 'robbed' of a young chap in which she could impart her motherly wisdom and affections, did she willingly enter the Earl's life as of late. She became his godmother, his matron, and his maternal figure. She bought him such grand and expensive gifts at birthdays, Christmas, and even Easter. When it came time for parental visits, she would come and meet his friends. With a smile and good character, did she accompany the Hellfire club on an excursion to their meeting place at a tea shop. And there, as an honored guest, being the daughter of a founding member, she sat and listened to their poetry and debates. At the end of the night, he found himself sitting on a bench in town, his arm around the cold and sad woman. There, she brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead, claiming that she wished that he "was hers". But before they walked back to his dormitories, he fell to a knee, kissing her hand, and begging that she find something of him she wanted, for he admitted his complete devotion.

" _If only you could take away this sadness … relieve me of this evil in my heart and take its place as my son."_

**THWACK!**

**FLUMPH!**

"Jesus Christ!" Martha exclaimed half in surprise and fully in wrath.

A wild haymaker thrown by the Earl of Warren, with hate in his eyes and Lady Mary's voice in his heart, connected with the ear of the young explorer as he was walking away. The power and force of such an angry and vicious strike, while his opponent's back was turned, sent the boy headfirst onto the puzzle desk. Sliding over the crystal palace, ancient chart of the sunken continent, and catching Lady Elfstone's illustration on his Henley shirt, there was a long pause before the entire desk fell over, books, research, pack and all. There was a loud echoing clatter of heavy things which landed on the boy who lay unmoving under desk and debris.

"How dare …!" Cora roared. Her eyes suddenly incensed in a fierce lioness like explosion of protective aggression at such a cheap and shameful blow stricken against her child.

But as Cora turned on the young Earl, she was suddenly shoved back. Her dress train caught and gave a tear under boot heal as she staggered backward and fell with a loud 'flumph' on the red love seat in a helpless and submissive pose. She was outraged and frightened by the boy who looked down on her as if she was so very small a petty creature.

Fore, to him, Lady Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham, was a traitor.

This once and future hostess of legend, with her famed eye for finery and mannered elegance was supposed the be the noble wife to such an honorable man. The wise mama to a suffering and lost eldest daughter who walked through a long and terrible night without a star to guide. The outraged woman was supposed to be the granny of the most beautiful girl, a motor heiress, his near promised future wife … how could she allow _his_ beautiful Sybbie to be beholden to that wicked 'thing'? The truth was that he must have held her in thralldom, or she was his willing servant in his vile deeds, both she and Lady Hexham. It always seems that the mongrel's charms of low cunning infected the fairer of sexes much easier. He guessed that even queens feel the need to cuddle wild strays who pick there feasts from the rubbish bins. But no longer, there finally had come a good man, a righteous figure, to break such a spell over the fair women of this much burdened family.

"DAHADDY!"

The first curtain on the truth of such things peeled aside with a shill scream. There seemed an almost audible sound of the veneer cracking when the girl, he was supposedly promised one day, broke from Martha's side. Tears ran down Sybbie's face and a look of fear was in her eyes as she ran past Lord Warren. At the top of her lungs, she screamed for Tom Branson, her father. The girl threw open the library door and ran into the crowded grand hall, screaming in heartbreaking tears for her daddy. The boy she loved had been attacked, her beloved granny was assaulted, and all by the person that her mama told her to 'get to know' better, to spent time with. It was then, the Prefect realized that it was he, and he alone, who the young girl was afraid of. That, perhaps, he was in the wrong …

But, once more, that initial moment and entertainment of doubt left his mind as quick as it was there. He remembered all the things Mary had said to him for two years now, and it was in those magical memories that he was self-assured that this was not wicked. His opponent, his fallen foe, he was the one who was wicked! He who burdens a righteous man and torments the very soul of the beautiful lady of the Eaton chap's dreams.

But, to his amazement, the overturned desk was lifted up and tossed aside with an intimidating thud. Ancient letters fluttered with crinkled rustling, old medieval scrolls landed with a warped hollowness on the floor, and a heavy monk's chronicle shuffled dryly. Slowly, a figure found his feet. The look of dumb founded shock was upon the Earl's face. The kid was four years his junior, and he took a blow that should've knocked out a boy his own age. Yet, still, there stood his adversary. There were no tears in his eyes, no submission or fear. The stricken adventurer only looked upon the Earl of Warren and spat out the iron tasting tang of impact from his teeth and gums onto the rug.

His eyes were ablaze then in the blackest of rage held back only by a wall of cerulean steel.

In his mind, in the hazy fog that had, momentarily, settled, he was there again. He was at the altar of the Black Temple to the 'Dark Lord' that had been built many a long age ago. Then, as he did now, the solitary figure of a young child stood alone when all the rest had fled or failed. The hydro-shield was faltering, the coils losing power, and a small patter of frigid seawater slipped through broken and cracked crevasses in the silver dome roof. The freezing water was like a baptism of falling nails upon blackening blonde curls, the cold eating through his suede jacket and layers underneath. The flames flickered wildly, and their braziers hissed like a menagerie of serpents all about the ruined altar of evil.

Behind him lay Ms. Mina Murray, not a day over the age of twenty-five, though that birthday came and went half a century ago. She wore a flowing gown of a sheer blue and satin material, that now wet, revealed her pale and sleek naked beauty. She was splayed helplessly over the unholy and evil altar, her wrists and ankles bound by cruel black chains. Her cerulean eyes were distant and wild, her gaze was long as if glimpsing many a wonderful and terrible thing all at once. From her ruby lips she spoke a jumbled mess of nonsense with one voice possessed by many. Greek, English, both old and new, and the language of a fairer folk of legend came in a frantic tumble of fear. Many lives of the ancient past and future yet lived flashed like a runaway train that rolled without break through the infinite whose tracks were lain through her mind, heart, and soul. Tears ran down the pale cheeks of this indefinitely young and cursed creature of surpassing loveliness.

In her induced state, she was all of them at once. In her consciousness was each woman of regeneration since the days before days. But also, the final incarnation of the future. A woman whose one weak moment in the bed of her possessive and obsessed Nazi captor on his hidden and beautiful South American estate, would lead to the freeing of an ancient evil that would destroy the House of Grantham. And thus, when whispering one man's forbidden name in the throes of midnight climax, she would trigger a terrible tragedy that would claim the lives of most she loved which would be but the beginning of "The Long Defeat" of the exiled heirs of Downton Abbey. And of these tragic and heroic young men, valiant and burdened, the beauty would long for in languishing captivity with a true mother's love for many long years of sorrow and guilt for each one who would fall.

Yet, the adventurer's mind was not on the plight of his future children. Nor did he comprehend their and his own ruin by one whom he loves and would search vainly for in a terrible torment of many long years of despair after her capture during the war and disappearance afterward. And further still did he not know of the terrible evil that would be found this day. Nor that it would ever afterward curse him and his line of descendants with its hatred and malice. Yet, if he did have the foresight and providence for such a moment … the youth would still not budge, nor give an inch. Even if all the suffering of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren swirled about him in a roar of sorrow and despair like a rolling river rapid. He still would not yield the maiden fair at any cost to himself or his kin. Nor would those valiant young men, yet to be born, wish him too, either.

From where he guarded the helpless beauty the boy stood against a faceless figure. Like the queen of this sunken realm, he sat upon a throne of his own atop a great many stair. In life he had been a vile and black hearted usurper and tyrant of the ancient world. A man fair and majestic as a king, which had turned an already decadent people's hearts black. And in those final days, the people of this lost civilization turned to evil and worshiped this Sorcerer Supreme of the blackest arts as a god. And here, from his seat of black jagged stone, did he look with fell divinity upon his worship by a degenerate and wicked clergy. And it was with glee and pleasure did he watch the many evil rituals of human sacrifices to him and his eviler master upon the altar. It was said that when the wave of God took this place in which he corrupted and rotted beyond redemption, that he laughed in triumph of the grave ill he had done to the Holy Father's designs for his children. Yet, though he has passed from this universe, destroyed long ago by his own devices and follies. There remained fragmented pieces of his foul spirit, the echoes of the malice and hatred of this sorcerer's black magic within the fifty feet thick walls of this five-hundred feet tall round temple to evil itself. Rotted and bloated feet, a decayed hand upon an arm rest, whose bone was visible in the slimy corruption of its rancid flesh whose putrid mass was held together by a golden tribal bracelet long greened. That was all that was visible of the once fair visage of Olympian perfection with a heart filled with malice and nihilistic ambition.

At the feet of this high seated godlike magician, there stood a man in pure white robes. He was tall and slim as a bow, his appearance was neither old, nor young, but something in a medium of undecided limbo. In him was an immortality long sought after, but now felt keenly as one placed upon the torturer's rack. Fore, as was the case for so many of ambition and fear of eternal judgement. They all find out too late, that death was but a gift from the creator to escape the many woes of an imperfect world occupied by its imperfect inhabitants. There, in the tormented creature's deeply pale and long slender hands, was held a staff. It was gilded, but with a black orb with white misty shades that swirled in its hollow glass. In his other hand lay a shaded item which looked familiar enough.

But when the shadowy figure, at the feet of his new master, saw the last stalwart figure who stood between him and ancient ceremony of the foulest evil upon the altar, he let out a terrible laugh which echoed in powerful reverberation through the giant amphitheater. It was two voices in one. Then, from his hand, he languidly tossed what he held down the steps from the high throne of his evil god. It made a sickening bass noise of thuds as it bounced and rolled down the steps at its own pace at an odd angle. It barely carried enough momentum to clear the last steps before it finally slid with the aid of a slickened stone floor. It straightened at the lad's feet. When it finally came into the light, the youth staggered back against the altar.

In front of him was the head of Captain Allan Quartermain.

The boy's hairs stood up on the back of his neck. His startled reaction to his friend's decapitation was marked with the wild reverberation of a wicked and amused chorus of sick laughter through the great auditorium. In its echo, there seemed a crowd of thousands of unearthed devils and poltergeists of old which couldn't contain their fervor in anticipation for the beautiful woman's violation and disembowelment upon their ancient master's altar. He looked bout him in the slowly escalating precipitation of cold-water droplets. There, in his field of vision amassed the flickered movement of thousands of half-shadowed ghoulish faces and the glint of their terrifying eyes hidden in the stone pews of this amphitheater to satanic culture.

But in that moment, while his bowels might have turned to water, his heart burned with a sudden anger at the death of his friend. Allan Quartermain had been a childhood hero, whose exploits had inspired him. A gallant man whose stories told in the captain's sitting room at dinner and near two years' worth of instruction and mentorship in many matters of education, manhood, and marksmanship had been a dream come true for a young boy filled with bravery and a taste for adventure. But further still, and perhaps even more strongly than anger, there was a deep-seated pride that swelled bitterly in the thundering mockery all about him. He was reminded of what his life had become in the years since his failure one Christmas eve morning. And he knew, if only by intuition, what they had all said about him back at home. Then, a white-hot flame burst forth in his heart, hearing not the ghoulish laughter of foul mockery, but the laughter of his family, the people he had loved, who had now written him off as a loss. He was to be known as a waste of his admirable father's genetic patronage and his beautiful mother's noble blood.

"If you wish for Ms. Murray, you will have to get through me!" The boy said in a low growled voice. "You fight me, damn you!" The boy called in a frightful rage after a long pause. His voice echoed through the amphitheater and quieted his dissenters to an eerie silence of wonder and surprise. Lost was the situation, the age discrepancy, or the lack of strength. To the bold youth, in his challenge came the arrogant assumption that the other members of their company were but trivial build up to him, the professor's real opponent. If the man, or whatever he had become in the bowels of this terrifying place, wanted Ms. Mina Murray, he'd have to contend with the valiant young explorer. To this, the shadowy figure turned his head just slightly and smiled …

" _ **As you say, boy."**_

Then, he came.

As he descended the steps slowly, it occurred to the young adventurer that he was right. The figure that was slowly playing in and out of the shadows was not the old man who battled him in wits over a chess board of the mind as well as game. In that moment, as he came out of the shadows, bare feet soaking in the mire of Captain Quartermain's blood, it was clear that the once "Napoleon of Crime" was no more. Instead there was some strange hybrid of Professor James Moriarty which was married to these fragmented pieces of ancient echoes which latched onto his mind, his very soul. All of which was encapsulated by the ceremonial mask he wore.

It was said by many in New Orleans that it had been cut from the Nubian Tree of the ancient Serengeti, feeding off the blood of a thousand generations of tribesmen that had watered the man-eater. It was true, though at the time, this black tree had been planted and tended by the sorcerer himself in those days. And through its magic did he craft himself a great mask which all religious ceremonies and spells he casted would be channeled. And thus, the vile of his evil filth clung and permeated every inch with a terribly foul artifact of pure evil. When the sinking came, by ill-fate had his mask survived the downfall. And thus, for many ages of this world, though bereft of true power, it still attracted men of vain ambition of every walk of life. Be it a lowly hunter on the African plain or great Sumerian Emperor, from its calling came only folly and cruel obsession till madness consumed all in time. But now, in the keeping of the greatest of ambitious fools, had it been returned to its master's remains. And through the conduit of James Moriarty, who sought immortality through evil spell craft and the sacrifice of the reincarnation of a magical princess from the days of this black sorcerer supreme, the fragmented shells of his fell echo had coagulated into a shadow which now inhabited the mask. Nothing ever more demonstrated such vile agony from a cruel fate than the ever-weeping blood spilling from unseen pours. Now, feeding off the echoes of the cruelty and horror that permeated these terrible halls, its power was focused down on a solitary figure of a young boy. From the eye slits there peaked two large oval amber gems filled with hate and malice, like clear flames wreathing two black slit pupils of a creature from the abyss beyond the circles of the world.

But still the boy was undaunted by their glimmer that appeared out of the darkness, hardening his heart against its foul power in the black evil of its elemental gaze.

"hear me, villain! My name is not boy! I am the son of Matthew Crawley, heir to the House of Grantham! I am of a line forged in battle by the Black Dragon and ennobled by his Lady Elfstone, the last of Constantine the Great's Byzantium …!"

There were many a great deed of valiantry and courage that the young adventurer would be known for in his lifetime through many a duel and battlefield. But not least came in this moment, when faced with the purest distilment of evil in all of its ancient power. Then, glaring, unflinching, into its flame wreathed eyes, there came a slow rattling of metal from the drawing of a short-bladed cutlass that was girded at his side. The sharpened sword sang into the darkness as he slipped it forth from its sheath.

"Win or lose, life or death, you've had your last laugh at my expense, Old Man!"

The masked figure halted, feeling the venom of the boy's blasphemy. He sneered in bristled outrage of the impudent disrespect that was given in his choice of words. It was not known if he was referring to the greatest mind alive in the world, or if he spoke to this dark god upon his throne. But either way, there was no taking the sting from either being lowered to the descriptor of 'old man' as if they were some ragged beggar preaching nonsense on a street corner. The figure drew himself to full height then, and he seemed in the darkness to tower over the young hero who stood alone. Then, things looked grievous and dire, indeed, in odds longer still. Fore, under the beastly hybrid's shadow it seemed plain that there was nothing special about the boy. He alone defended the helpless woman splayed upon the altar, like a prized majestic creature ready to be carved for a feast of vile celebration. His sword forged short for the close quarter fighting of a man grown was measured in the grip of the youth as one of regular length in the hands of one so small.

But, yet, there remained a steadfast purity of courage unrivaled. Of his challenge there came a power in his words, keen and uncompromising. The flames of the braziers were caught in the silvery gleam of his fresh forged blade with ancient Sikh runes, shining cold and sharp in the light. Its song was beautiful and deadly as it cut the damp and salty air, droplets of seawater running off its razor edges like the morning dew. Also, about his neck there came a blinking glow that was growing stronger from the artifact taken from the queen's neck and gifted to the young explorer by the angelic vision of the same woman he now defended. It sensed the heart of the one it chose, and in its growing light there symbolized a greater challenge of perhaps a higher authority still.

And indeed, surrounded by the sable darkness and terrible reek of evil unchecked, the boy stood like a star shinning defiantly and bold in the very heart of the fiery realm of ' _The Beast'_ in his final circle.

" _ **An outrageous young fellow to the last. But this is beyond the simple concepts of your simian boyhood courage …"**_

Then, the masked figure of Professor Moriarty lifted his arms above his head ceremoniously. The swirling mist in the hollow glass ball of his gilded staff began to whirl, faster and faster, like a cyclone, till all the black haze began to purify white. Then, all about them, the blazing and steaming braziers began to dim little by little till they were but smoldering embers with only a few glowing sparks in their gilded pans. A deep and impenetrable darkness swept over the amphitheater as if the bottom of the sundering sea had drunk the ruins about them once more. Then, there was a chaotic rush of silence and dumb stricken confusion as if everything was swallowed whole by a great yawning abyss in which nothing existed. Yet, still, there remained, when everything else was swallowed whole, two slit black irises that was surrounded by flames of malice. They looked into the domain of nothingness that their heart was filled with. In them was terrible lust of all things that shimmered and gleamed, to take beauty into their arms and possess it for all times. And for each ambition was but an unsated feeling to quench the nothingness that it feared at the end of all things. In this, there was shared the same nihilistic nightmare of mask's host and its dark master.

Then, suddenly, there came a loud and orderly hammering of staff upon the floor. Sparks exploded and leapt from the scuffed and slick stone as he pounded the end of his gilded rod. All at once, a rush of black mist overtook and violently consumed the white in the glass ball. The embers in the braziers upon the wall began to glow, then smolder, and finally blaze. With each moment the darkness fell away and instead the intensity of the flames grew higher, hotter, battling the downpour of water from the above. Jumping embers from the piping hot flames leapt from their ornaments and fizzled with a hissing sizzle upon the wet ground. There came a great and terrible intensity of heat that spread about the ancient chamber. The smell of fell and reeking incense coupled with the unbearable heat made the amphitheater a choking and gasping furnace which burned a foul white odor that plumed through the holes in the silver domed roof. The reeking smoke's pollution came on so thick and encompassing that it smothered the hydro shields and weakened even further the electromagnetic currents. Then, from the white smoke, there came a heavy and thundering column of icy water which fell through the chimney holes of the ruined temple. The ground shook all about them as more geysers began to open, collapsing a weakened part of the roof sending rubble down, smashing the stone pews of worship in the upper balconies of this perverse theater of horror.

" _ **RWAAAAHAHAHAAAAAA!"**_

In the explosion of coursing power through his veins, the reeking smells of his dark religion filling his lungs, there came a frightening heathen cry of lusty savagery from the dark sorcerer. Then, it was answered among the confusion of flames, smoke, and thundering water. An amphitheater filled with thousands of demonic memories of what he had unleashed thousands of years prior now gnashed their fangs, hammered their hands and feet on the balconies. In their combined voices they chanted with a deep bass unison of ceremonial drums. In their wild and vile exhilaration amongst growing chaos they pointed their attention to the woman chained to the altar. They were filled with lust, hate, and hunger to tear apart, corrupt, and destroy a figure of such beauty, innocence, and virtue. They savored her as one who found an odd pleasure in the whiffs of some otherwise ugly smell. The helpless woman sputtered sobs and writhed in the torment of darkness about her as the lustful thunder of chanting and wild cheers of horrific shadows of unimaginable monsters waited. They wished to watch their master suckle her tender flesh, slurp her golden spirit, and lap up the very marrow of her bones before throwing her to them. In their terrible glittering eyes in the darkness they could almost taste her sweetness.

Then, and only then, was this masked villain satisfied that he had shown his adversary the full might of what he was up against. In him was a dark power that once reigned supreme in the world of antiquity. And though it was but a shadow, an echo, of the Sorcerer Supreme's power, it was still more substantial than any that was left in this age of the world. With a lift of his arms, the flames slowly resettled, drawing back their blistering fingers, leaving trails of carbon scoring and black stains of soot on the columns. While, like a conductor at the end of a crescendo, the chanting and wild howling of the many corrupted souls of ancient men quieted to an inaudible silence in the frigid gloom. Then, the chamber was filled with the rushing noise of frigid waterfalls of the frozen sea above. The masked hybrid turned back to give the youth a poignant lesson of humbling oneself.

But there was no one there.

The masked villains laugh was long and loud, leading a chorus of thunderous mockery from all around. He shook his head at the sheer and empty bravado of the last hurdle of his final revenge. All his words, all his deeds, his smug insults and blasphemies, but he ran the first chance he got. The boy was a slow learner, yet in the end, he learned, didn't he? But still, he would give little thought to a ragged squire of a minor house of petty nobility of some far-off land. There was a princess to manage … and manage her he would.

She spoke many a different language, of which the combined knowledge of Professor and Dark Lord understood. But her reaction was universal when she flinched from his wandering touch. She jerked and whimpered in fear, chains rattling, as his cold and long clammy hands felt up her wetted thighs and worshiped her flat belly. Each protest, twitch, and shiver were a significant victory which he relished. His hatred for her, was only matched by his nihilistic lust to have her, to consume her loveliness, and despoil everything about her, till she was tainted forever, baring the markings of his ownership upon her very soul.

He had her, after centuries, he had finally taken the greatest of prizes. There was a time in which she had humiliated him, defeating him and taking from him his tower. With 'mercy' she had sent him away to his master as a whipped dog. Her descendants were his enemies. And though he had perverted and destroyed their kingdom of divine gift. There were those of her blood who ever resisted his consul and spoke against him. And of those, they had escaped the downfall, and in time, had a major hand in his destruction. But now, time and circumstance had favored this black sorcerer. Now, the evil spirit forever in the mask, had victory in hand. The bloodline of the princess in this age of the world was thin, spent. Her last descendants mediocre and weak, petty little lords of a world in decline. Her last descended son, her anointed champion, but a boy of small stature who lacked the courage to even defend his ancient, almost inconsequential, foremother's spirit. Now, she would pay for it with her blood, screams, and prayers unanswered. But for a time, he instead only wished to watch, to relish her struggle, to see the fear in her eyes knowing that her torment, her violation, and her body's sacrifice to evil was at hand.

But, for all his cunning, the dark spirit had forgotten what James Moriarty never learned in three weeks of chess matches.

And it was in the moment that he had let his guard down that there came a sudden loud cry that shook the ancient hall with a frightening noise. It was an explosion of hatred, fear, and battle aggression which came out in a howling cry of war that sent a corkscrewing sensation down one's spine. With a rapid sound of echoing shoe soles upon wet stone, a figure came out of the darkness from the blindside and vaulted up onto the altar. Then, with a glowing talisman about his neck, he leapt forth. Lifting his singing blade over his head with two hands, the young adventurer brought it down upon the startled figure who staggered backward. There was an ear drum shattering sharp piercing of metal on metal that rang painfully through the chamber. The Sikh cutlass cleaved the high priest's staff in twine. When he fell backward onto the slick floor, he watched in shocked fury as the glass ball at the head of his staff shattered into a million pieces when it hit the floor. The contesting and consuming mist within escaped into the world, slithering and disappearing into the darkness, of which nothing is or ever will be known again.

In that moment, there was a loud cry of screaming and wailing that shook the very soul. But one by one, dark evil eyes began to disappear. Till, finally, there remained only three figures left in the entire temple. The masked figure looked, and for the first, felt just a pang of fear as the boy stood above him. He was armed with a sword that shone in the cold light as if it really could slice him to pieces. Indeed, in the repeated failure of underestimating his opponent, the evil sorcerer and villainous professor found themselves completely at the mercy of a young hero who had but to stride forward and strike him down.

But, instead, the boy did something that no one could foresee.

Fore, the young child that stood before the monster was not a man grown, was not experienced in the world. Though, he had known of betrayal early in life, he did not take such cynicism to heart. In truth, he was still a boy, young, innocent, and valiant. And he truly hated his enemy as he loved the woman he protected. But it never once occurred to him, as it would so many others, to cleave an unarmed man. Truly, uncorrupted by life, the young hero still believed and held to an ancient code of honor, of a chivalric way of battle. Thus, even as the masked professor sat dumbstruck on the slick floor, his plans destroyed all about him, he flinched when there came a clatter and rattle. Sliding to his feet was an ornate and kingly long sword that had lay by the maiden's side in preparedness for dark ritual.

He looked up in amazement at the action from the figure who stood before. The boy seemed, in that very flash of time and space, the very champion to which from his blood the final doom of this Black Sorcerer would come. With a glimmering blade and glowing artifact about his neck, he cried out to the very embodiment of evil itself.

"Defend yourself!"

* * *

**Entr'acte Music**

" _In the Halls of the Usurper" – String Player Gamer_


	4. Part IV

**THUMPH!**

With a stagger, the Eton prefect hit the postern door of the library, giving the shelf a rattle. His eyes were wide, his pupils narrowed, and there was a pained outrage on his grimaced face. With shaking two fingers, he touched a terribly damaged nose. When he retracted them, he found a fresh thin trickle of blood from where he was, once more, stricken by the same adversary as before. The counter blow from his opening salvo had been quick and savage in execution. He hardly had time to see the adventurer coming before his fist contacted with his nose.

But the outrage of the cracked rebel striking him again was never fully played out. With a start, he moved just in time to escape the dusty and hollow explosion of a fist, thrown in aggression, that punched the stem of an old green cover of a tedious tome. The Earl of Warren backed away, shocked at the unknown strength that was in the hitting power of one so young. Quickly, both boys squared up against one another as they drifted apart, then closed.

This time things were different than they had been when the Eton chap had been taken unawares and in ambush by the same adventurer. He had his head about him, he had a cause worth fighting for, feeling that in him there was a representation of the honor of this noble household that had been stolen by this crackpot with muddled blood. His very existence, it seemed, felt like a living and breathing violation, rape, of his beloved Lady Mary. It also helped that the boy, among being a senior member of the "Bells and Trials Hellfire Club" was also reigning champion of Eton's 'premiere' amateur boxing club. Having sported Lady Mary's colors during key matches. His record as a gentleman fighter was impeachable, with many a match attended by Lady Mary, Lord Grantham, and even Ms. Sybil. He thought that this fight would be clean and over in a quick stroke.

But he found it odd that his opponent did not take a fighting stance that he recognized. Instead, there was something of the "Orient" to the way he moved and stood. Feet apart, hands up like a boxer, but the younger's style was shifty, sliding, ebbing and flowing, like a swashbuckling swordfighter. He was also incredibly, and frustratingly, slippery. Most of the jabs, haymakers, and feral thrown was simply dodged or ducked with almost supernatural evasive quickness. There was nothing classical or gentlemanly about him or his fighting style. Like all things, the boy came off rustic with a hodgepodge collection of different fighting methods thrown together.

There was influences of fencing, oriental martial arts, street fighting, and all with the striking power of an African bush warrior's footwork and leg strength. They were influence and echoes of his teachers who had lived many a great and impossible adventure and learned from just as impossible people and places on these journeys. Thus, it was, that while the Boxing Club might be the pride of Eton's athletic pageantries. It was the teachings of life and death by a gaggle of aged explorers, adventurers, and an international crew of seasoned corsairs that produced a different school of fighting for one in their keeping after two years.

For a long moment the prefect and his ideological enemy stood staring the other down, fists up. It was then, looking into the young explorer's eyes, that a cold stab of unnerving fell over the Earl. There was a dangerous bit of steel that glimmered in cerulean eyes which bore a quiet but powerful intensity that was unmatched. This figure, the wild and uncivilized rebel, which tormented the woman the young Earl loved was perhaps not here, but elsewhere in his memories. And it was here that lay truth at the doorstep. Not in a million lifetimes would the Earl of Warren be able to match just an inkling of whatever situation the young adventurer pitched his tent. The idea of "to the death" was a fanciful phrase, thrown around by chaps and lads their own age. But rarely was one seen that not only lived it but felt it a constant state of his being when all roads lead to an inevitable violence. The younger of the two saw no sport in fighting, only survival, and only a dark cold amphitheater with evil itself gazing at him from the darkness.

"No More!"

Lady Grantham, sensing the escalation, made to stand up. Both had gotten their hits in, though, she'd dare say that she was unsatisfied with a busted nose in trade for a flying cheap shot while her boy's back was turned. But still the woman knew that to let this continue, or play out, was truly a dangerous folly. Cora knew what irked them, what drove them, and by what terrible roads had been built that led them to this fight in the first place. They didn't just dislike one another. If that were the case, then a trade of blows would be satisfaction, as was the way with all boys, however frustrating and irrational it seemed to Lady Cora's illiteracy to the constitution of manhood. But, in truth, it was that the Earl and her boy flat out hated one another's guts, down to the very core. A blow would not satisfy, neither would blood. Only the full and absolute destruction, the eradication, of one another from existence would do. Fore, they were fundamentally set against one another, not by fate, nor by destiny, but by the scheming of one whom even now, though her boy would never admit it, the two boys were fighting over.

"Get back down there!"

Cora's back was arched as she was about to place her weight on her legs to bear her up. But suddenly a familiar hand reached out and drove down her exposed belly. The Countess was pushed back against the sofa. With a wild look of wonder, did she turn to find Martha, drink in hand, the other clamped on her daughter's flat core. There was a look in the old woman's eye that Cora had not seen in many a long decade, but one she would never forget. It was strict, authoritative, and absolute. Not in an hour would the mother and grandmother betray the order given to her with that commanding glare. Lady Grantham felt a teenager again. It was the sensation of rushing headlong into something without facts, only to have a stern hand grasping the silky bow on the back of her ball gown, holding the impulsive beauty in place where she stood, as if it were a leash.

"It's lesson time … and maybe you might just learn something if you keep that pretty ass in your seat, Little Girl." The old woman replied with a wizen grunt as she finished her drink.

Martha Levinson was too old for politeness, too old for society, and much too old for lies. There was no bone in the old woman's body meant for social engineering, or the rantings of hysterical feminist reformers lecturing mothers about the parenting of their boys at home. The fact was that girls gang up on one another, spread gossip, and ruin one another's lives. And as for boys … they fight, goddamn it. No amount of breeding, flowery title, or setting would ever change that one irrational fact of men. If Cora or Robert would have their way, they'd make them shake hands, have tea, and pretend that it was all over with. But they'd only turn the juice up on a pressure cooker that was waiting to explode later. It was no mistaking that these two idiots hated each other, and there was no mistaking that Martha couldn't care why. But the good thing about boys was that they were built to beat the hell out of one another, as they were equally built to take it and shrug it off. The old woman would stand no wilting violet or know-it-all female interloper with a high mind about an idealistic world of a tamer manhood. They hate each other, they're gonna fight one way or the other, so let'em fight and get the whole business over with so they can go back to being pains in Cora's prim and proper ass.

It was in that distraction that a rush of anxiety and fear overcame the prefect, and something rather aggressive took hold. He was bigger, stronger, and older. There was no reason that he couldn't use his power against the smaller rogue. It was that in mind which he torqued his leg muscles, lowered his shoulder, and twitched, just ever so slightly, to begin the avalanche of momentum to 'bull rush' his younger opponent. But something painful exploded in his shoulder as the bookshelf rattled all of the sudden. Before he knew it, he had charged headlong into the postern door, feeling the hand of his opponent shove him in redirection. In one smooth motion the boy had darted away, reading just the twitch of his enemy. Then, with the grace of a Spanish Bullfighter, he had made his charging foe whiff and face plant humiliatingly into the door.

Stumbling back into a textbook boxing stance, the Earl jabbed with right, then left, before doing a combination. But he found that each blow had failed to find its mark. The adventurer simply twitched his head evasively left, then right, before ducking the combination entirely with a slippery ease. As he shifted out of the way, he threw a powerful jabbing punch into the prefect's rib area, before slipping behind the older youth, to which he cuffed his ear with a cupped palm. A blind pain in a nerve bundle of his lower ribs numbed his crotch, while the throbbing was in congress with a deafening warbling of stricken iron in his eardrum. He whirled around to find that his enemy wasn't pressing any assault, in fact he was waiting for him. The young adventurer understood that he would gain nothing from attack, and that a defensive strategy against an opponent with possession of all the advantages but experience was a wiser course of action.

There was no denying for one of little experience, and the blind aggression of the fundamental self-belief in being on the side of right, that attack was the only course of action that made sense. After all, he was bigger, stronger, and in possession of an unassailable moral character of breeding. It would be only a matter of time that he would get his opponent in a corner, catch him out of position. Then, the right set-up combination would finally finish this Beatrix Potter character, with his grown-out curls and embroidered heathen symbol on his countryside jacket shoulder. It was thought, and quite mistakenly, that the younger was simply bidding time till the fight was broken up. Thus, there came a relentless push of attack from the Earl. But only Martha Levinson realized what the kid was really doing …

And she smirked to herself.

Once more a familiar scene played out in front of the two ladies, one on bated breath, the other pouring herself a new drink. One eye was on the glass, the other on the fight that just got more interesting. The smaller of the two was quick and sleek of hand. And when the prefect invaded his space to throw a punch, he found it cross parried, barred, and countered with a chop to a section of his neck. With a pained growl, the Earl went for a haymaker with the other hand. But he found that the kid had already blocked it, redirected his arm, and once more countered by cuffing the Earl in the other ear with a painful suctioned smack. The force of the slapping motion sent the older boy staggering away. The entire room sounded like a blacksmith's armory set up in an echoing cathedral. The ringing was painful, and now he found that he couldn't quite swivel his head like he wanted. Every time he turned toward the chopped side, it tilted with a numbed sensation which gave him an incomplete view. Thus, it was no wonder, that with every move he made, the young explorer drifted to that side of him.

While the Earl continued this line of attack, Cora was dumbfounded. Her mother was right that if she sat long enough, she would learn something. And that lesson was that she had no idea that anyone fought like her boy could. It was truly like something out of another world. His hands were slick, fanciful, and like lighting. She watched the boy elbow block, parry, and strike his foe like a hammer. His movements were like water, choregraphed and fluid all at the same time. She had made peace, long ago, of the type of 'education' that "The Sikh Captain" would provide her boy. She had never approved of some back table deal that Isobel agreed to in the wake of the baby's death. And she felt that, perhaps, it was the harshness of grief that blinded her to make such an apprenticeship for a small boy to a fierce looking figure. But, at the time, it seemed better than Mama and Robert's ideas of shipping him off to boarding school, which Isobel flat out refused to agree too under any terms. Thus, it seemed idealistic that two days a week, and one month at the turn of a season, the boy went on a vessel no one was allowed to see, on voyages he did not speak of for the last two years. But now she saw but a taste of the 'physical training' which one would never learn in any prestigious academy of the British Empire.

It was enchantingly strange, terribly foreign, and utterly fascinating a style of fighting that she had no idea existed in the world.

When, once more, a haymaker was sent the smaller of the two's way, the same result played out. It was blocked, barred away, and the counter of a chopping hand hit the other side of the prefect's neck. However, this time, the Eton chap saw an opening. Eating the pain, he threw a frozen jab that hit the slippery 'half-breed' in the face with a blow. The size and power discrepancy finally reared its head when, with just a glancing blow, the adventurer stumbled hard. The refreshment table rattled were Martha, quickly, saved the whisky decanter from going over. She watched a moment as the kid shook his head to get the world to focus, supporting himself on the end of the table.

"Go on, Cowboy! Stumbling is for the whiskey after the fight!"

Martha, with filled drink in hand, decanter hooked in arm, grabbed ahold of the back of the kid's popped up jacket collar and shoved him away from the table, back at the Earl. Cora made to stand up to once more break up the fight, seeing her boy had been stricken in the head. But just as she was about on her feet, she was body checked down by a sequence embroidered gut of an old woman. Cora flopped back on the sofa wide eyed in outrage and shock at Martha. But the old Southern Belle only gave the woman a strict look, shoving into her daughter's cleavage the filled glass of alcohol. Meanwhile, the old woman popped off the top of the crystal container and watched the fight with a smirk of sheer entertainment, nursing the decanter as if it were a cheap saloon bottle. In unison, both women took a dry swig, Cora from her mother's glass, Martha from her daughter's whole damn decanter.

Seeing the kid's momentum coming at him from the table, the prefect wound up and threw a heavy feral punch at the explorer, looking to end the entire engagement with one hit. But the blow was ducked, his momentum carrying him past it. Stopping at a dime, the adventurer hit him again with a jab to his other ribs. His hitting power was unreal, the energy of his punches was harder than one would think from someone so young. But the boy was taught early, having the disadvantage of young childhood, how to use his legs for power by the mightiest of the tribal hunters of the African Serengeti. There was an explosion of pain in the youth's ribs, physically feeling something rather 'crack' in his side when the youth used his momentum to fuel the punch. But before he could even cry out, one more time came a suctioned and sickening smack to his ear. It was already red, but now there was actual blood coming from it.

The entirety of worldly noise was replaced by an incredible disorienting ringing and buzzing. The intensity of pain and discombobulation sent him staggering a moment. All he could focus on was the painful ringing in his ears, the unbearable throbbing of his ribs, and the extreme stiffness in his neck which he couldn't turn without pivoting his torso. But this only exasperated the pain in his ribs even more. He continued to stumble a moment, suddenly realizing that the slaps to his ears were creating a momentary issue with his depth perception. It became clear that he could not follow his opponent's shiftiness, nor keep up with him. Due to the damage sustained, he found himself like a boulder. If pushed in one direction, he would be an unstoppable juggernaut. But if he was sidestepped then he'd continue to barrel downhill aimlessly.

However, his sudden explosion of aggression, fueled by pain and humiliation, payed off. With a savage cry of shame and hatred, the Earl grappled the younger kid. Lifting his legs off the ground, he slammed him on the table to which alcohol, sweets, and toast fell off in loud and violent clatter of aluminum and shattering crystal. This time, no one could stop Cora from finding her feet. Even Martha cringed at the rattle of the table. A boxing match was one thing, but this became a sudden hand-to-hand fight that someone might have found on a battlefield in the American Civil War. Immediately, Cora went to go and break it up. But once more her mother stopped her. But this time, there was a helplessness on the old woman's face. She knew that if her daughter tried to jump in now, she'd only get hurt, or get attacked in her boy's stead. Mrs. Levinson was fully aware that the only person that could help the Adventurer out of this mess was the boy himself. Knowing this as well, Cora lifted her skirts, and sprinted with tall leather boots into the great hall to find the only man who could put a stop to this madness.

Lord Warren had his hands about the younger's neck, snarling in a feral rage. His jaw was locked tight, his cheeks puffed out, and his breath was coming out in torrents of blazing hot air of effort from his nostrils. Today, the prefect was made to look the fool, and a man of his means and responsibilities could not afford to be made a fool, not here, not in front of this crowd. The English Gentry had a long memory, and when the time comes it would be hard to be forgotten, how the Earl of Warren was beaten by an uncivilized, half-bred, mutt- a boy four years his junior. His family needed prestige, his family needed the royal appointments, and they needed an heiress … in truth, the Earl of Warren needed sweet, beautiful, and incredibly rich Sybbie Branson. But most of all, if for no other reason, than just to always have Lady Mary close. And today, he would lose it all, everything that was supposed to be his very life if he could not beat this disgrace to his House and Class. He could not be the failure, the one who let the torch go out. He needed this, all of it, the manor, the girl, her money, and her mama. He needed the woman he loved, who he knew loved him back. Somewhere in his mind he believed that if he could get rid of this last barrier between them that she would be his, that Lady Mary would place him at her side in all things.

But a pain shot through his wrists. They went numb with a terrible pinching ache that ran up his arms. The explorer was digging his thumbs deep into nerve bundles of the youth's wrists. His fingers suddenly lost all strength and his hands released the boy's neck. Then, in a torment like no other, he felt his ears mauled again. The boy slapped with savage rhythm of the rat-a-tat. The Earl howled in pain at his poor and brutally damaged appendages. And when he backed away, the boy sprang back his legs to fold at his knees. Then, with a powerful thud which caused a cloud of dust to linger from the impact, the boy unleashed his legs like a spring. A two footed kick contacted the Earl's chest, sending him reeling backward, knocking over the coffee table between the two red sofas in the library.

His chest felt like a cracked vase, every inch of him was in pain. But before he could continue, the Eton chap noticed now, in his stumble across the Grantham library that there were people funneling in from both sides of the room. Mostly they were male guests, and at the forefront was Tom Branson, his daughter, his beloved pride and joy, clinging to his hand. The Irishman's eyes were wide at not only the state of the library, but the blooded Earl and adventurer. The younger popped off the refreshment table vaulting back on his feet smoothly. He paused when he realized that they had a crowd now, a large one, and that _some_ had been there since he had fallen over the puzzle desk.

"Be careful …"

The boy grew alert at the voice that called out in ambiguity. He turned one way, then the other. There, behind his uncle, was a woman who took the spot next to him. It seemed that she had been standing there for quite some time. So much so, that he came to realize that Tom Branson had taken the spot next to her when he came bounding into the room. She wore a dark blue blazer over a white shirt of sinfully soft material, and a silk pencil skirt of blue which hugged her upper thighs and hind end tightly. Her hair was long again, having since moved away from the bob she had sported for many years. It was styled perfectly, with tresses of glossy chocolate hair pinned and curled with silvery ornate hairpins. She was deathly pale with red tinted amber eyes that seemed cold and lifeless. The woman was a beauty beyond compare, hollow and empty. Even her shadow was dimmed, translucent, in the light.

She seemed as one who was there, but not there, with one foot in this world and the other in some nostalgic land of yore. The woman was quiet, still, and with a flickered manner as cold and sharp as an icicle. The sorrow in her beauty and the coldness in her elegance made her seem an enchanting presence, like a macabre spirit of a maiden in a Gothic Romance novel. A lady in white, cursed to wander the halls of the old castle with blazing candelabra in hand and streaming velvet cloak about her slender figure. Long had she waited for her true love to return to the forlorn maiden over languishing centuries. And it was this notion of romanticism and mystery in her striking appearance that drew many to her. Each suitor believing they would be the one to break the curse. That in their arms would such a tormented silken creature find peace again. In those days, and for many afterward, there could be found fool a plenty who would do anything for the white lady of these gothic halls. Thus, it came through this fanaticism for her, that many would come to a dark conclusion of where their cursed beauty's pain was coming from. And it was said by Lady Hexham, in bitter accusation, that perhaps they were led to these vile conclusions by the enchantments of a cold and ageless vampire who would've liked nothing better than to find a man brave enough to stomp out a young adventurer.

They both, woman and child, matched a look of deep intensity. There was some sudden and entirely personal battle of silent wills that overtook them. All about the two, the world stopped and fell away into a blur of irrelevance. There was a power in this conflict that was felt like the rush of static electricity up the spine. In such little exposure that both had to one another over the subsequent years, when they did come face to face there was an exceeding rush of a thousand different emotions that swelled up into a single pounding drum of war that raged. It was hatred, resentment, and sorrow, such terrible sorrow, between the two of them. It was a savage battle fought with heart and soul against the greatest enemy, themselves.

Suddenly, as they locked eyes, gaze drawn in glares of fiery emotions that looked to burn one another up where they stood, a blur came out of the corner of the eye. It was the flying fist of the Earl, who, taking a moment to try and stop the ringing in his ears, looked up to find his foe sharing a look with Lady Mary. It was not a glance, or a quick survey of the spectators. The look shared between boy and woman was filled with a weighted consequence of a deeply personal connection that was on a completely different level. It then occurred to him that in all the years and quiet personal moments he had with the cold beauty, that they had been nowhere near close to the fundamental, soul deep, intensity that was given between his adversary and the woman he loved. There came a swell of anger and jealousy. Fore, even in the kinder and gentler affection shown to him by that same woman over the years, it seemed so terribly superficial compared to the way she was looking at the young rebel with such all consuming passion.

When that vicious, murderous, fist dishonorably blindsided the young adventurer, he did a complete spin and hit the ground hard. Yet, hateful red tinted amber eyes remained seared into his hazy and muddled subconscious.

**CLANGCK!**

_A boy upon the ground rolled out of the way of a sword's blade which smashed into the slick ancient stone of the floor where he had just fallen. A masked figure of great evil bore the silvery blade of the King's own sword, the very ancient weapon that had once belonged to the father of the magical Princess who lay atop the altar. The blade was leaf shaped, with vine and ivy designs on the guard that climbed up upon the blade in a mastership of metalwork unseen in the world for tens of thousands of years. It was an elegant and sleek weapon, who had seen war before, though never had it been borne by the very foe it had been wielded against. And the sound of its song in the frigid air was mournful and languishing at such blasphemies. But still it could not withhold its timeless edge from that who wielded it. Thus, it hit with an explosive power as it smashed the floor in pursuit of the boy hero._

_The ground felt like lying on the surface of a moistening ice cube. But the adventurer did not halt his flat roll, even as he was soaked head to foot. His enemy gave chase, smashing where he had been moment's prior. But finally, feeling the hard and sharp discomfort of bones and something metal underneath him, the boy halted. With a sharp ring, the boy parried away the strike of his enemy with his cutlass. Then, with his enemy knocked aside momentarily, the young explorer swept a leg forward, arcing his foot so that it contacted the back of the masked old man's supporting leg to which he derived his striking power from. The man, even as all powerful as he felt, couldn't stop his collapse to a knee. Now knelt by the lying young hero's side, the boy reached underneath and brought to bear a round targe from the remains of the black sorcerer's once personal guard of fanatics. It's rusted and corroded face was wrapped in seaweed. But it made a strong metal clang when the youth rose up and smashed its flat surface into the mask. The old professor staggered backward from his kneeling position the mask giving a hard-reverberating rattle from the blow._

_Quickly, the boy popped up to his feet from his back. Now he was armed with a targe and his cutlass. The monster came at him again, giving a sweeping swing of the ornate sword. The blow was parried away with a striking clash of metal that nearly sparked. But it was a feint. Just in time, the young adventurer raised his buckler to absorb a powerful heel kick that made the metal sing. The force caused the boy to fall backward, but he recovered in the same motion, smoothly summersaulting backward, landing in a crouch on his feet. Like a sharp flicker of a serpent's tongue the professor stabbed at the young swordsman, but the boy quickly swept aside the jab and then pressed forward in counter. Despite his size and strength compared to a dark godlike sorcerer, he pressed the new assault. His training had taken over, and when he got in range, the boy made a leaping spin with his sword and buckler. The elegant, dance like motion of ancient Sikh discipline made him seem a spinning top with razor edges. Taken unaware by the sleek move, the old villain was surprisingly nimble as he dodged the furious attack. And when he countered, the cutlass and mythical long sword clashed with a hollow warbling ring of steel. The Sikh weapon- cold and deadly, the King's sword -woeful and unwilling in the hand that it was wielded._

_In that moment, blades crossed and caught against one another, the combatant's met between their sparked grinding. The flames in the two slit eyes of the mask were scorching in a new vigor, the blood running down from unseen pours in the mask fizzled and popped in boiling as they dripped down the scales like liquid fire. But still, and much to the building rage of the hybrid figure of Super-Villain and Dark God, the youth was still undaunted by his eyes. Nor was he willing to yield the fight for Ms. Mina Murray. His hair was soaked, he bore a superficial cut across his cheekbone, and his blue eyes glowed in the reflection of the artifact about his neck. It was a gritted, near mad, feeling of aggression in him. It was a stubbornness that was unseen by any, the sheer unwillingness to compromise even at the point of the sword. But there was very little effort that was needed to throw the valiant youth backward. The professor put forth just a half of his strength and he had already shoved the boy out of the way. When he pressed his advantage, the leaflike blade smashed into the stone floor again. Quickly, the boy somersaulted away, rolling to the side of the blow before taking a fighting stance, glancing king's blade off his buckler and countering with his cutlass. The masked demon pivoted from the slash with dodging lift of an arm._

_What followed was a lightning fast exchange of blocked blows, parries, and counters, the momentum of which was always driving the young adventurer backward. The ringing of sharp metal against metal echoed loudly through the amphitheater. All around them the ground shook to the fevered words of Mina, chained to the vile platform crowned by human remains of the faithful who would not yield to evil in the final days of their corrupted ancient kingdom. Rubble fell as the tall silver ceiling of the rounded temple began to cave in, and from these holes came giant gushing geysers of seawater that was breaking through the electro shields above._

_At the dueling figures feet rose a hazy freezing mist, as flecks of ice began to crust the ruined columns, snuffed out gilded braziers, and black stonework. All about them came a growing pale glow which lit the dark ruins. Each thundering waterfall brought a growing source of light from the artic like temperature of the waters that could be found at the bottom of the ocean. To be near them was like being pelted with a thousand shafts of arrows, and to step into the column of freezing liquid light was death, for a cold so sudden and powerful would surely stop even the most powerful man's heart in under a mere second. If boy and demon were fighting about and atop of molten lava it could not have been half as dangerous as battling between those beautiful columns of pale glowing death._

_But duel they did. Their battling silhouettes dancing larger than life over the writhing woman upon the altar of evil._

_Sword to sword, eye to eye, the young hero went toe to toe with the ancient evil. In him was that rare, unadulterated, focus found in the most tense and dangerous situations in life. At that moment there was a coming together of everything he was ever taught, which now was but an instinct that was built by repetition of fundamentals which he was forced to exercise every day for two years. Despite his age, his strength, and height, the boy fought on with a fierceness of ten. It was but one of those strange occurrences where it seemed that everything clicked, where but once in a lifetime the impossible through fear, stress, and bravery, bore a run of skill and luck that was unprecedented._

_Yet, still, perhaps it could be explained by the very nature of humanity itself. Fore buried in each of us is the genetic memories and experiences of a thousand generations of man from the bosom of Eve, to the Centurions of Rome, and Knights of the Holy Crusades. And it was here, not explained, but indeed pondered if somewhere in the blood of this young man was not the memory, the love, and the fire of familiarity within him from the instincts of the greatest Knight of the House of York? The bastard son of the violated Lady Kate Percy and her royal rapist who shall not be named. A man who even confronted by a half-brother baring royal decree from another half-brother did he not yield the Byzantine Princess, the last of that ancient Roman race. And hundreds of years and generations later, was it not by that same instinct in which the last of that great and valiant knight and his Roman Princess's line refused to give her up to torment and violation? Fore, to see him fight that day, one would have thought that he was in fact the ghost of "The Black Dragon" himself come again to defend his beloved lady fair._

_Yet, as the fight went on, his targe was dented and stricken, and his Sikh blade notched. He could hold no ground that he stood upon and found no advantage in the bitter back and forth. He was outmatched, though not out fought. He was overpowered, but not beaten. And he was bent, but not broken. And when he pulled himself to his feet again, out of the frigid puddle to which he had been driven, the ground rumbled while frost clung to his blade and rusted buckler. There was the strum of cliché that spoke to the desperate fighter, the cornered man, who fought on for pride and the impossible odds when the cup of victory was spilt. But yet, as they came together again in a flash of blades, metal singing over the torrent of glowing death all around them, the grim and hopeless situation did not seem appear in the thoughts of the young boy. In his eyes, in his heart, no matter where he was, or who he faced, he truly believed that he could still win. That this day, on this field, surrounded by the horror of the temple and the plutonian fountains of artic cold, he would slay the two monsters before him._

_In fast and smooth succession, the fight escalated. The clashing of swords rang as notched cutlass met enchanted sword with a powerful and sharp parry. The boy, swept the leaf shaped blade away with the edge of his rusted targe, slipping like water to the masked professor's right. He ducked a long sweeping horizontal slash. Then, the masked beast let out a blood curdling yell when the cutlass caught the masked figure's arm, drawing a deep spurting sinew of blood-stained frost from his silken ceremonial robes. The Professor pivoted and threw all his weight behind a hammering blow with a snarling feral growl of disgust. Taking a knee to absorb the hit with an anchor, the stricken targe met the blow. It was then that the item split right down the middle, falling off the boy's arm in two jagged edges. The young swordsman, who was knocked back down, got to his feet and immediately began to retreat. Water splashed in the cold air that was choked with the thick smell of salt when the sorcerer gave chase. He was right on the boy's heels, sword held aloft. Twice the young adventurer turned and parried away strikes as they ran._

_Finally, the boy arrived at a ring of ancient statues nearby. He recognized some of them from the mural painted on the ceiling of the throne room in the hall of the Kings and Queens. There they had been depictions of holy divinity, beauty, and wholesome worship. From what he could see they had been some sort of archangels, patron and revered saints to this lost empire of man. They were beings of reverence to the old and virtuous ways of the men of this civilization. But now, in this evil place, there stood crafted mockeries of them. Some hideous to look upon, others vile caricatures, and others still, such as a beautiful queen of the stars, depicted in the act of sexual deviancy. However, now these images of awful heresy were withered and broken with age. And it was here, ironically, that the young swordsman chose to make his stand._

_He leapt over a low horizontal swing of a long sword and atop the back of the high angel queen of the stars that was bent over, mounted and being taken from behind by a pig-man hybrid. Now eye to eye with the enemy atop the terrible blasphemy, the two traded a flurry of vicious strikes and parries with exploding clouds of frost that clung to their ringing blades. But the force that the masked professor brought to bear was no longer held back. And the boy had not the strength to repel it. The stone head of the swine was lopped off as if it were made of actual pork, as the youth leapt back further to the shoulder of a stunted figure of a blacksmith with comical beard and covered in animal's fur. But quickly he vaulted above the keen blade of the King's sword which demolished the arch-saint of smithy craft in one swing. Now amongst the growing cloud of stone debris the youth stood upon a branch of a stone tree that a gorgeous and wholesome wood nymph goddess was shown preforming fellatio upon. Here, on a higher ground, the boy again attempted to hold off his enemy. But it was to similar results. After crossing blades twice, the youth leapt away as tree and flower crowned goddess were separated vertically._

_But this time, the sorcerer found the pattern of their blinding quick choreography. Thus, even while the boy was in mid-air the monster reared back and threw the enchanted sword. Its song was sharp and deadly as it spun like a saw blade through the damp air. And when the slippery and evasive young swordsman had hardly settled upon the outstretched wings of a half-man and half-eagle abomination of horror, the mocking statue's stone bird legs had already been cut out from under him. With a cry of surprise, the boy's weight caused the effigy to come cascading down. In a frigid cloud of dust, the boy groaned in pain, holding the small of his back that had landed on jagged debris. Meanwhile, his sword had fell from his hand and skittered through growing pools of icy water._

_Hearing the sloppy wet footsteps of his enemy approaching rapidly, the youth sputtered in pain, crawling away toward where he heard his sword disappear. His breath frothed, as he sucked in the pain of sharp needles that prickled his small hands as he felt through the thin puddles of freezing saltwater for his cutlass. When he turned back, he saw that the Professor had pulled from the rubble the King's sword which gave a sharp ring in the salty air, as he flung all moisture from the blade with just one stern swing. Then, with slapping wet steps on slick stone, he began to trail his enemy in a languid and foreboding casualness that hid a deep and cruel malice of vivid hatred. With a renewed quickness, the cut up and injured boy felt desperately in the pale mist foamed water for his blade, till a blast of ice halted his advance. There, breath clouding wildly, he dared not go further. Though he saw the glimmer of his sword's blade of Sikh runes, it now lay at the very base of a column of ice water that thundered down through the roof. Several times, hearing the coming feet of the masked foe, the boy attempted to reach for it. But each time the sensation of knifes opening the very flesh of his hand made him pull it away, and ever bluer than it was before._

_But his last attempt was cut short by the sound of singing blade cutting the air. Quickly the youth rolled through misty water as sword smashed the foamy ripples at the base of the thundering waterfall. But this time the figure turned, and rather than give chase with swinging sword, he kicked the boy in the gut as hard as he could. The youth let out a gruesome and grim gag as the momentum from the violent force caused him to give a rolling jangle toward the foot of the altar. Face half in a pool of saltwater, the boy's visible breath was consumed by the mist. Flecks of ice dabbed his eyebrows and clung to his frost crunched curls. He was so bitterly cold, though never as cold as it had been one Christmas Eve morning two years ago. He couldn't move, the pain in his lower back and in his gut made him paralyzed as running seawater rippled under cheek. About his neck the artifact was blazing like blue fire, pulsating against his chest, rippling the surface of the water that submerged it._

_Just then, he looked up to see that the black sorcerer, chief lieutenant of evil in the ancient days, was standing before him. In his hand was the dripping sword of the King, frost once more clinging to its edges. He looked upon his foe with no reverence, no respect for the battle that was put up this day. Fore, both professor and corrupted member of angelic race had ever bore a grudge against even the smallest of folk who stood against them. And further still, they would grudge even a single coin of their treasure hoard taken and withheld. Thus, to be stood against, blooded, and blocked from the beautiful princess that should be theirs, will be theirs, there was no curses both of old and new that could aptly explain the bubbling black tar that emanated from where a soul should have been. Steam plumed from the mask as sizzling blood dripped with a fizzle in icy water while the beast stood silently above his foe. With all his might did he bring the full weight of his malice and evil upon the boy, savoring the sight of his crippled enemy. But still, even at the end, the boy hero would not be daunted._

" _Do what you can, what little you're capable of with that play sword, thief." The boy mocked the marshal skill of his foe. "But know this. In this place, I've learned one valuable lesson. All things, good and evil, eventually come to an end. There will come a time when even your reign, however short it is, will end." There was an assurance in his sudden prophetic voice that spoke as if the words had been placed in him by some other power of the universe._

_To this, there came a sudden cold wrath in the masked figure who became greatly troubled by these words._ _**"Pitiful little mortal!"** _ _He spat with venom._ _**"What knows you of the passage of time? What are the silver streams of the infinite that winds and curves forever to one so insignificant? Fore, I have seen it! I was born from it!"** _ _He growled._

" _Very little …" the boy answered. "Because, that's all I have on this world." He explained. "But then, when my time is over, I leave this place, to the halls of my fathers, and away from evil's reach!" He spat._

" _ **Is that what you believe, young warrior?"**_ _He asked._ _ **"Is that what your priests teach you? That, beyond the circles of the world that there is plenty? That there is a hallow place for the souls of the righteous? I tell you there is not! It is but a fiction told to keep you and those alike in thrall, so you do not question the world and the designs of its petty masters. A feign to make you look the other way as they lust after one more innocent child. Well, unburden yourself, boy, fore, there is nothing beyond the circles of the world, nothing but the abyss, the void!"**_ _He mocked._ _ **"Tis a place where all your simple courage and fool's beliefs disappear from all thought and memory till there is nothing but the endless darkness! Now, fear my blade, my wrath, for they both hasten you to the nothing!"**_

_There was a sudden explosion of dread at the thought of the yawning chasm of unfathomable emptiness. There, entrusted to it's all consuming embrace, was the virtue of his father, the golden heart of his Aunt Sybil, and most painful of all, was the very existence of the sweetest of baby girls. Such a short life had she lived that all of her was but a moment of confusion and fear before she ceased to exist, disappearing from the universe entirely without trace or memory of her laughter and tears. But his fear was soon replaced with a sudden vision of the throne room, the maiden in the mural. Then, there was a light in his eyes as he clutched the artifact about his neck._

" _You Lie!" He called out fiercely. "I've seen the light and the dark." He proclaimed. "And I know of the abyss you speak of, and it's not waiting for me, or those I love!" He snarled. "It waits for you! It dogs you, follows you, taps your shoulder. Because, you carry it in your blackened heart wherever you go!" The boy sputtered with frothing breath as he shivered in cold and ferocity. "It's not me who's thrall, it's you!" He accused. "You say my priests lie to me, and I say your priests lie to you! Greed, Envy, Lust, and Fear are your clergy and no matter your pursuit of their sermons, you cannot escape your void, nor the judgement at the end of all things!" He challenged. "I say only this more to you. There is no void, only the dark shadow of your cowardice of what lays beyond your greed and lust to dominate …" He gritted his teeth as he looked unflinching into the very eyes of evil itself._

_The proud and scornful words pierced the figure in the throes of victory with a bolt of true fear. Like the chess game played by Professor Moriarty against the same figure, the taste of victory was soured by the bold audacity of this young adventurer. Once before had he been given a chance to repent before the feet of these Lords and Ladies of angelic hosts of his race. They offered him judgement, punishment perhaps, but also mercy and redemption. But it was by fear and pride that he refused their summons when they cast his master down, fleeing and hiding in ancient lands that do not exist any longer. And ever since, in many incarnations of the ages of this world did he continue to flee. Never once taking ownership of anything that he did, only hardening his heart again and again. The fear feeding his hatred for all things that he ever lusted for in the same breath. But there was still nothing in this world that was beyond his corruption and domination that could make him forget the anger and shame of knowing that the words spoken against him now were true. Then, for the first time in many ages of the world, he was filled with fear as he gazed at the statues who so suddenly shook their heresy and blasphemy. And it was in their eyes that he remembered ever the judgement of the One who sits upon the throne that lays at the end of all things of time and space._

" _Do your worst, I don't fear what comes in the hereafter, unlike you,_ _ **Old Man**_ _!"_

_Incensed by the mocking insult, the masked beast gave into a terrible rage of pure fear as he lifted his frosted sword above his head to stab it down into the chest of the valiant hero at his feet._

_The glimmering of ice upon a forever sharp enchanted blade lay perilously over him, like a cracking icicle ready to fall. The young hero remembered pondering in that moment if his father would know him when they met when this was over. Would he also be disappointed in all that he could not do, that the man himself, so ably, could've done, as his boy was so sure. But the blade never fell to pierce his chest. Instead, when all hope was lost, there came a figure clade in soaking gown of near translucent blue silk. In shock and surprise, he saw that it was Mina Murray that grappled with the masked professor over him._

_As monster and boy had fought about her, little by little, in the confusion of being overexposed to the African mystic narcotic 'Taduki', which strong smoking incense caused her to become trapped in a never-ending cycle of her many past lives that lived in an ancient soul. But in the sound of swords clashing, in the passing of flittering and dueling shadows over her helpless form, one consciousness overcame the broken and empty Mina Murray and took control. She was a woman already born, yet completely unlike the small girl in the bosom of a family amidst her golden childhood in their magical country estate._

_This woman who came to the forefront was someone who had lived to see that place, her ancestral home, taken by shadow and flame. For a moment, in the boy's duel with the masked figure, she was there again at that very moment when all was lost. Then, as they did now, they fought with swords up and down Downton Abbey's grand staircase. She was clad in silk nightgown, the cold metal of an artificial hand of her captor, her forced husband, grasping her arm possessively as he was driven down the stairs. Trying to get to her was a master swordsman whose handsome and fierce face was lit by the licking flames that consumed their family's home. But all she saw, wasn't the grown figure of a man mighty in reckoning, the old facial scar that ran across his eye giving him a warrior's barring as he met his foe's blade in a lighting fast fencing exchange. No, when she saw the boy standing alone in battle. She saw a child yet to be born, barely thought of, if ever at all in these early days of his father's childhood. He stood panicked and afraid as Downton burned all around him. The valiant man she loved turned while he locked blades with the one handed and mutilated former Nazi Colonel who wore a mask of ancient evil that had been sealed away by the adventurer in his youth. Yet, even after so many years since their duel in the temple of the Dark Lord the man grown, with hard and haunted cerulean eyes and a facial scar of war, still was as undaunted by flaming eyes as he had been as a child._

" _Thomas, get'em outta here!"_

_He roared over the flames at an old man in livery that rushed from the postern door by the grand staircase. But just as Mr. Barrow went to grab up the young master, a part of the gallery collapsed. She remembered crying out in horror and despair as her oldest friend, since the very day she was born, did not even have time to cry out. Smoldering ancient stone was the tomb of Thomas Barrow. Like so many of both upstairs and downstairs that terrible night, he was another soul to be enslaved and trapped by the new master of this now cursed gothic castle. Then, a frightened small boy with black curls, his parent's shared face, and_ _**emerald eyes** _ _stood in a ring of fire all about him. He clutched the hand of the buried and unmoving Butler. About his neck, on a fine chain, was his father's fob watch that was blazing a cool blue light from inside his Henley night shirt. A terrifying dread filled her as she was shoved and squashed against the masked figures back, his hand of cold metal in a death grip on her arm._

_He would not yield his beautiful prize of war, his love slave, and his evil obsession. Even when she had fled from him and his hidden South American estate, he had followed her back to her family's home. He was obsessed, infuriated, the beauty belonged to him and no other! In his cruel blackened heart, he'd never allow a future where the adventurer, who took his hand and his fair face in battle when they were young, would reclaim her. The former Nazi Colonel would rather die than see his archenemy bestow his beloved wife the motherhood she longed for in her love for that emerald eyed insolent pup. And it was in promises made by an imprisoned and sealed ancient evil that the monstrous Norseman swore that if he could not have the Celtic Beauty, then no man shall! It was for years after her capture in war that she had languished, but obeyed, living her sorrowful life in the gilded cage of the opulent parties and balls thrown by Nazi Cultists in Teutonic Castles and then fascist dictators of South America, or otherwise in the vast jungled acres of her captor's hidden palace dreaming longingly of her home, her family, and the man she truly loved. But now she would not sit idly by to wait for him to rescue her as she once did._

_Not while her only and true child, her little boy, was in danger._

_She had put forth all of her strength, all the will that seemed immeasurable in the heart of a frightened mother incensed at the knowledge that her child was in trouble. And through the Taduki, there were other women in her mind who also felt the call. Mina Murray had been destroyed, taking departure from this body to her rest beyond the circles of the world gladly after half a century of living under a vampire's curse. But there was Lady Elfstone who knew nothing of this frightening hellscape, but with one look, she knew in her heart that the boy fighting a losing battle with mighty courage was one of her children, a descendent of hers. Then there was the first, the magical princess of a fairer folk that knew of this evil sorcerer and had bested him long ago. She also added her strength, having a love for all her descendants as if she bore them into the world herself, no matter how distant a blood they were to her and her beloved. Thus, the woman of the future had aid of the desperation of three mothers that gave her strength. And as the young hero was kicked in the torso, letting out a gruesome and grim gag, the noise he made was like rocket fuel to the woman who burst her bonds upon the altar of evil._

_When she came to the scene, the boy was lying on the watery floor, half shrouded in frigid mist. But that was not what she saw. In her mind it was a different body that wore the same mask as the villainous professor. He was afire, having been kicked over the railing by the adventurer when he tried to grab back the beauty that broke free to save her little robin. But now, that small boy in black pajama pants and dark red flannel Henley was clutching one handle of a large and ornate silver chalice that had crafted vine worked into the metal. All over the grail were blazing purple symbols in Aramaic, blue and red light battling as the masked figure forcefully tugged on the other end of the ancient Jewish relic. The small raven curled child let out an excruciating cry of pain as the chalice sizzled, growing red hot. Blood ran from his small hand as one of the ancient Jewish runes seared into his palm. But no matter how the masked villain tugged or shook, the boy refused to let go, like a noble puppy sinking its teeth into an intruder intent on harm to his loved ones. Immediately the woman fell on top of her chosen son, grasping him tightly, adding her strength to the tug of war. Yet she could care less about the grail, only wanting to pull her baby to safety as Downton Abbey burned around them. But the boy had the heart of his father and his grandmother, stubbornly refusing to yield the relic to the evil demon that had conquered the house of his ancestors. But then she felt cold, and a shock tightened her body._

" _NO!"_

_She looked down to see that an ornate ancient longsword of a King was ran through her._

" _ **STOP THIS AT ONCE!"**_

The booming voice of Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, echoed through the small library. At his side was his wife who had quickly fled out of the room to fetch him when their boy was pinned to the table. The older man, who was led by his wife through the crowd of onlookers by hand, came to the forefront. His eyes were wide in shock at the very state of the library. Dust was everywhere, broken glass, pooling alcohol, and trays of food set for afternoon tea was spilt all over the rug. He placed a bracing, disbelieving, hand on Tom's shoulder when his gaze was drawn to the puzzle desk where their three months of hard work lay scattered all over the floor next to letters, leather bound scrolls, and ancient books.

Finally, his gaze was drawn to the two combatants.

The young Earl was worse for wear. His ears were completely red, with a dark crimson that looked painful to even glance. He also stumbled when he walked, seeming to be trying to avoid potholes that weren't there. His depth perception was completely off. It also didn't help that it seemed that every move he made was followed by a muffled squeak of pain. Careful and clumsy, the young Earl looked like some poor imitation of "Frankenstein's Monster". But at his booming voice, the boy had turned, painfully, to face his patron. There, Robert saw the gleaming eyes of a poor chap desperate for not only the attention of a strong male figure, but the approval of one at that. And Robert Crawley had always liked to feel like he was wanted, no matter what. In truth, and for months, he had spoken to Cora that the Eton prefect rather reminded him of himself at that age. That, perhaps, some good turn of favor to fate would come from Mary and his fostering of the boy.

But still, there was a distance to it that he had not intended. Indeed, one might have believed that Robert Crawley would have jumped at the chance to mentor and foster a young boy that he actually understood, who was exactly what he and the rest of the House of Grantham had wanted from an heir. But, rather slowly, but increasingly, Lord Grantham began to discover that finding kinship with a chap was not the same as him being 'his' chap. Though, he did get a kick, as did some in the house, of having a mini Robert around, who eagerly learned at his feet. There was something missing that could not be replaced. It was blood, though, not his blood. It was the blood of his wife, his daughter, and his 'dear boy' that fell on the very day of his very own son's birth. He realized, quietly and languishingly, that what was missing from this solid fosterling of noble birth and common background was that he was not a replacement for the real young man which he longed for to be returned into his heart.

That very chap was slowly turning over on the floor, unintentionally burying his face into a pile of Lady Mary's silky knickers. With a grunt, he got on all fours, as he began looking to find his feet. Blood was streaming down the corner of his mouth, dripping on the fine cloth of the panties. Getting up to his knees, he frustratedly, angrily, ripped off a French satin pair of knickers that was hanging off his ear. He wiped his mouth with it and then tossed it away like a used rag. By that sheer fact alone, after the brutality of the punch that knocked him down, the prefect felt himself stumble back in dismay.

What was it going to take to knock that kid down and keep him down?

"Oh, Shut up, Robert!"

The older man's eyes were wide in outrage when he turned to find Martha coming up to aid the adventurer, yanking him back to his feet from his upturned jacket collar. She shocked him even further by suddenly shoving a glass in the younger boy's hand. "You bunch of morons started this, so, let'em finish it for god's sake." She rolled her eyes as Cora made a noise of fundamental disapproval when the old woman poured just a slender pool of whiskey in the boy's glass.

"Oh, yes? Perhaps we might also sell some tickets in the village while we're at it."

Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, always had a certain quiet anxiety in her voice, pausing just a tick before making her point, as if choosing which words would cut the deepest. The old woman in black lace and purple silk leaned on her cane heavily as she looked in a muddled shock at the state of the room that she had so meticulously managed and kept during her forty-year reign as Countess. Now she seemingly stammered and looked about wild eyed in confusion as one who had an artillery shell explode near her. This scene was the very height of the indignity that her family could suffer. At a royal house party, none-the-less. Though the King and Queen were not present, it was still a gathering of their Court, held in their name, with the etiquette observed as if they were present. But now, there was dust everywhere, knickers piled on the floor, and the Earl of Warren fighting "Isobel's Mongrel" in the very destroyed library of Downton Abbey. It was like she had walked into some sort of nightmare. Made all the darker by the appearance and agitating of "that woman" who was sashaying about like this was the best day of her life. And why shouldn't she be? There, right in her face, was the very ruin of their family made flesh. If there were ever two people who would come together, it was "her" and that little animal.

Martha just placed a clenched fist on her hip as she poured. "If I'd known it was going down … I just might have. Beats the hell out of giving the same boring tour of the house every third Saturday of the month, eh?" She mocked the Estate's side business of opening the house to the public for alternative revenue.

"Is there nothing you Americans won't sell?"

"Only when we find something you people won't buy."

As the two old women sparred, the younger boy took the whiskey in with one knockback. Everyone was surprised that he did not grimace, nor swallow. Instead, there was a gritty and rugged toughness portrayed in the sloshing of the alcohol in his mouth to clean it as he looked back at his opponent. This wasn't over by any stretch of the means. And when everyone saw the glares given between the two boys, they knew what Martha hinted, implied, was true. If they didn't do this now, they would do it later, somewhere private, out of the way, where anything could happen without supervision.

Then, in an instant, the brakes on the already runaway train broke off, when a voice spoke up to the Earl of Warren,

"Keep your guard up, my darling. He's trying to soften you up, discombobulate you, so you'll punch yourself out. Protect your ears."

In that moment the pale and strikingly beautiful Lady Mary suddenly made it known where her allegiances where in the final round of the fight.

Small cerulean eyes were lit aflame in a primeval type of anger that clawed up from the very base of everything that made him who he was. They turned and bore deeply into the amber eyes of the cold beauty that stood among the crowd. But he wasn't the only one. Tom Branson whirled wildly in shock at what he was hearing at his shoulder. Lady Edith, Marchioness of Hexham, in pink silks turned, incensed at the words her sister spoke. While Bertie Pelham, at his wife's side, was taken by a cold disdain for the very woman that his eyes burned through. But to these looks, Mary gave no heed. Instead, she turned with a cool emotionless expression toward the younger. She turned her head slightly, locking her gaze to the boy who stood battered in the center of the library. In one look she was arrogant, sharp, and filled with a silent but potent anger that was eating her alive.

Lady Mary Talbot had never hated anyone in her entire life as much as she did that boy.

With a wry grin at the look of a killer on the explorer's face, the old woman took the glass from the boy's hand. "You good to go?" She asked as a corner man would a boxer before the bell rang. The boy paused a moment, watching as Lady Mary, ignoring the truly disgusted looks of her family, cleaned the blood from the nose of the young Earl with Mr. Carson's handkerchief. She was quietly speaking to him, her cold eyes never leaving the young boy with blood mixed whisky still cheeked in his mouth.

"I'm gonna send that preening fruit cake bumbling back to that bloodless vampire's lopsided tits!"

The mood suddenly had turned in the room, as did the momentum. There was a keen black flame that was blazing behind the adventurer's cerulean eyes. It was a deep primal madness when he looked out at the scene that Mary was perpetuating. One could not say whether it was the memories of his duel in the temple of the "Dark Lord", or the sight of Lady Mary Talbot betraying him to his foe, advising the prefect against him. Maybe it was being here, among the many faces of the people who had let him down one Christmas morning, who deserted him when he needed them most, and thought that they could replace him with someone more fitting of their name and lifestyle. Whatever it had been, there was now a wild look of hate in his eyes and a fire burning out of control in his heart. Thus, he was filled with a reckless malice for everything and everyone around him.

If he could, he might have burned the entirety of Downton Abbey down around the whole lot of them.

There was still some attempt to break up the last act of a fight. Lady Violet had tried to get her son to say, to do, something, as the boy strode up to the stumbled older prefect. Anyone with a good eye, with a feeling for these things, and who was certainly honest about the situation knew what was going to happen. It seemed impossible, absurd at sight. The Earl of Warren was bigger, stronger, and a boxing champion. But he had fought, engaged, using only his strength, his prestige, and the arrogance of all that these same adults had reinforced inside him all his life. While his opponent had used his experience in actual battle, and more dangerous still … he fought with his intellect.

Now, the pride of Eton's Boxing club sported three cracked ribs shared on both sides. He could not turn his neck, and he was tormented by the extreme pain of those cracked ribs when he was forced to turn his whole torso to follow his enemy. The Earl's punches were off kilter, unfocused, due to the blinding ringing of his ears. Half of what his beloved Lady Mary had told him, he could not hear or understand. In the previous engagements, the young adventurer had weakened and evened the odds against his much stronger opponent, chiseling at his foundations. Now, at the end …

It was time for the hammer.

The moment that they squared up, the Eton chap taking a boxing stance, eye squinted at the volume of buzzing in his hearing, the boy struck. The explorer spat the blood tinted whiskey into his opponent's face. Immediately, as if flipping a switch, the startled and embarrassed boxer cocked back and fired a heavy haymaker at the head of the adventurer. The fist cut through the air with a slashing whip that was ducked by his opponent. The youth countered, throwing the back of his elbow with the momentum of the duck, weakening the Eton boxer's nose. Darting back up, the boy jerked forward, and with a sickening snap, head butted Lord Warren, now breaking it. The prefect let out a cry of pain as he stumbled backward, holding his turned nose, which Lady Mary had just cleaned for him. It was gushing blood, out of joint.

He was caught by Tom Branson, who looked horrified to see not just the blood filling the palms of the Earl's hand. But, moreover, he saw that the young adventurer was now using a style more adept for street fighting, than the gentlemanly rules that everyone thought he would be using. Quickly, the big Irishman tried to restrain the Earl from going back at his opponent. He did not approve of violence, especially in front of his little girl who clutched to him in flowing tears. But more so, this was not going to go the way everyone, especially Mary, thought it would. One boy was fighting like this was a boxing match in the Eton gym. The other was fighting like he was surrounded by a gang of toughs in a Hong Kong back alley. Unfortunately, Tom received an elbow from the struggling boy, now beyond fierce in the pained rage of his broken nose, gulping endless drafts of blood rushing down his throat. When he pushed Tom off him, he immediately rushed at the boy that was waiting for him in an oriental type fighting stance.

This time the youth tried to feint, get his enemy off his spot. But the adventurer wasn't going anywhere. The Earl opened with a combination strike of jabs. But when he did, the explorer folded his arms in front of him and met each jab with a striking elbow at the apex. There was a sharp aching explosion in his fists when they met elbow at full speed. His left hand went numb, and his right felt like a cracked egg that was spilling all its yoke. Then, in counter momentum, the younger swept a straightened hand across the Earl's brow as the youth attempted to fall back. He felt a sting of a superficial slash of fingernails that was fleeting. Nursing his right hand which felt paralyzed stiff in a half-gripped position, he backed away further.

For a moment he pondered what exactly the last move had been for, till something warm began to trickle over his eyes. A sheet of blood began to pour from a new cut on his lower forehead. Painfully, with fractured hands, the prefect tried to wipe the red liquid that was seeping into both his eyes. But he only managed to spread it with one numb hand. Soon, from broken nose and bleeding forehead his entire face was stained with blood. Through his feverish attempt to keep his eyes clear, he saw a momentary flash of his Sybbie. His heart sank to see that absolute horror had possessed her, and he saw through her eyes that he must have looked practically ghoulish covered in such blood. This was not what anyone was expecting, not from him, not from this. There was a shame in him that turned to wrath. He felt the money, the prestige, the girl, and his very life slipping away.

"I say, that's enough!"

Bertie Pelham, Marquess of Hexham, announced. He, being an army man, having fought in the trenches, knew when someone was beat. There was no consensus knockout blow, but he knew what his beloved nephew was doing. The Earl had one useful hand, there was blood running down into his eyes, blinding him. There was no reality of victory here. No matter what anyone thought before this fight. The boy, which he had a mighty fondness for, was ready to hammer the insufferable little prig into the dust. The Eton prefect, who Bertie could hardly tolerate even before he insulted his little girl, was being set up for a fall and quite a beating that the Marquess was of no doubt he deserved. But the library of the Earls of Grantham, in front of dear Sybbie and the Ladies of Court, was not the place for it. But when he placed an authoritative hand upon the youth's shoulder, the prefect turned and gave him a shove back whose surprise sent him reeling into the arms of his beloved wife and Lord Grantham.

The action only incensed the adventurer, who considered Lord Hexham, even after all his travels and the people he met on them, to be one of his favorite people in the entire world. When the mostly blinded prefect strode forward in aggression, he threw a wild and blind haymaker with all his weight behind his only usable hand. But in his lack of vision and depth perception it was a wide swing that his opponent barely had to duck. Moving under the sweeping arm, the boy began a lightning quick succession of punches starting on the Eton boxer's cracked ribs, which he broke. Then, circling his opponent, he traumatized his kidney and paralyzed his back muscles, before fracturing his other ribs. Then, when his explosion of targeted punches ended with him right back in front of his staggered opponent, he finished with a haymaker to the Earl's blood covered jaw with everything he had. The prefect stumbled away hard, before eating rug. On the floor, the youth cradled his broken ribs and writhed with pain filled gasps. It was then that he had felt, in a torrent of agony, all that the boy had been holding back till now.

Tears mixed with blood, not only in pain, but of the shame of it. He was beaten and the prefect knew it. There was nothing for it. He couldn't get up, and he could not find the strength to go on. A boy younger, smaller, and weaker than him had beaten him up, twice. This time it was in front of the entire Royal Court. There would be no living it down, and no time in which anyone would forget what happened here. Even if he were considered a victim, the poor soul viciously attacked and beaten by some uncivilized rebel living outside Lady Mary's kingdom, they'd still have no respect for him. What he would be remembered for was that the only blows he could land were a couple cheap shots, both when his opponent's back was turned.

He would only be remembered by courtiers and beautiful young heiresses for that terrible thing that happened to him that one time at Downton Abbey.

But the worst and most helpless feeling came when he looked up. There, to the very shattering of his heart, he watched as the woman he loved, his beloved Lady Mary began to walk. She did not go to him, did not try to comfort or encourage him. Instead, he watched as she attempted to slip away as if not to be associated with the lordling. She was helped by Mr. Carson, who was signaled to do so by a quite discreet Dowager who stood shocked and appalled by the entire business, but mostly unhappy of the outcome of the fight. The cold beauty slipped from the crowd and moved to exit by the main doorway out of the library. However, just as Mr. Carson opened the door, an arm shot out and barred their way. Bertie Pelham looked coldly furious at the woman, but it paled compared to the absolute disgust that was on Lady Edith's face as she stood by her husband's side.

"Where in Hell's Gates do you think you're going?" Bertie asked facetiously.

"Let me pass …" Mary swallowed coldly, though behind her eyes was terrible mortification for being caught in such a cowardly act.

"We will do no such thing!" Edith looked her sister up and down. "You did this …" She accused. "And you won't slip away from how it ends!" She said in outrage.

Suddenly, Mary's arm was grasped. When she turned in a look of fierce outrage and shock of her manhandling it melted away. Tom Branson was as angry as she had ever seen her best friend. "Don't you dare think about it!" He snarled at her through his teeth. "You're gonna see it …" He said with passion. Forcefully, ignoring Sybbie's worried cries that he was hurting 'Mama', he pulled Mary roughly through the distracted crowd.

"Look at it!" He demanded, swinging her around by the elbow so that she faced the bloody mess, all of it. "Look at your handy work!" He cried in a snarl giving his sister and best friend a shake. "Look at them, LOOK! Look what you've done to them!" Tom's voice was so harsh that it cracked in disgust and fierce revulsion as tears misted in his eyes in a deeply painful sorrow.

Seeing the action, and hearing Sybbie's distress, the young adventurer turned. There he caught sight of his uncle forcibly holding Mary at the forefront of the crowd. The big Irishman held her head straight, forcing her to look at the two boys in the crescent of onlookers. But her red tinted amber eyes looked nowhere but at the victorious young child who had an ugly yellow and green bruise on his cheek bone. They locked eyes again, and from that cursed and ageless beautiful woman, frozen in time since the day the boy's father died, he saw but the glimmer of the terrible truth inside her. And that was that her unabiding hatred was born from a pure and primal longing and need.

He was all she wanted.

Lady Mary thought of that boy every hour, minute, and second. She wanted to hold him, kiss him, and love him so desperately. But she denied him to herself, fore she knew herself to be wicked, cold, and unfeeling. She thought it would be simple to get rid of him, to pawn him off to Isobel and Mama. After all, she had done a terrible thing one Christmas Eve morning, the worst thing that a mother could do to her child. And when she had done it, she cut him out of her heart, her soul, to save him from her wickedness. But it wasn't easy, it wasn't difficult, it was simply and truly impossible. He lived inside her and he was forever an immovable part of her soul. Night and day, a million lifetimes lived in a single hour, and she could not stop needing him, loving him. Till, in her denial, her pain turned to rage, her need turned to obsession. Her cold anger was a frigid fire that consumed her. He was a cancer, venom in her blood, a slow painful poison that made her suffer. So, she set out to level the world in her torment and self-hatred. And at all times, her wrath was kindled by the need to hurt him, as he hurt her, to make him understand that he had no power over a heart that did not exist anymore. Sometimes wishing that he never existed at all, so that she might never know the pain of what it was to be without the one person who completed her.

But he didn't understand that, couldn't, fore he was just a boy. He did not know why she hated him, dogged him, and was wholly set against him so primally. It was not his war, and he rather wished not to fight her. But she had given him no choice. What he didn't understand, he took as blame and resentment for the death of her baby daughter, his sister. Yet, never knowing that of all people in this world, Lady Mary never once held him responsible for anything he ever did that day. In truth, his heroism in that hour brought only shame to her for how ill she had used it on that morning. Fore, to her, he was everything that was good and right that she was able to create from her wicked and cruel soul. And she believed that it was her tainting, her vile evil of impossible expectations in that fateful hour when she sent him forth alone to do an impossible task, whose failure wounded him so deeply that she did not deserve to be his mother any longer.

Yet, all her life, Lady Mary had always gotten what she wanted. Even from Edith did she punish and bully with very little fight back. Never had anyone hit her back when she attacked. And from the depths of her sorrows, she ruled High-Society with fear of her cruelty of words and actions that came in the darkness of her grieving. No one dared challenge her, fight back against her wanton destruction of herself and others in her endless languished suffering. But now, she found herself constantly humiliated, constantly reeling. The young boy, the child she wanted so desperately, was the only one in the world who did not give in to her, would never give her what she wanted. He hit her back ten-fold when she hit him. He damaged irreparably all she built and cultivated when he was provoked by her arrogance and cruelty of spirt. And from these raids there ever lay a shadow upon Lady Mary's mind, fore he was getting stronger, the people of the county ever rallying behind him, flocking to his banner. There would come a time soon when he would come for her, come for this family's legacy. And on that day, what justification would he have to save something that had been used as a blunted club against him his entire life? How could she beg this man who he might become to save something that she had ever turned against him in every matter? And what memory of Matthew could she invoke in that eleventh hour when she even withheld his memory from the very proof made flesh that their great love had ever existed?

In the end It wasn't just that they shared the same eyebrows, chin, and jawline. The worst was, simply, that the two were much alike in personality, and some might say that they were 'too much' alike for their own good. They both were stubborn, contrary, and with lives that made them angry. And from that obsession bred in sorrow and grief, there would come heartbreak and dark toxic impulse in the many years that followed this day. But there were but a few schemes that were bore with a wickedness of such surpassing cruelty, as what came ahead at this very moment. Nor would one plot conceived of the nearest to evil that the beautiful and forlorn great lady would ever touch, have such lasting tragic consequences for her pawn.

Fore, on an afternoon such as this, some years ago, the Earl of Warren had come to her with heart in hand. He offered submission to the will of his cursed white lady by her tower window. There, he saw the flinted spark in her eye, the interest of humanity. But he knew not, in that moment, that her cruel heart began to sow a terrible thread of wicked inspiration. Thus, for years, in long scheming and plotting, did she weave herself into the young chap's life, and brought him into her family's. So close into the Grantham household had become the Earl that Downton was like a second home. But all of it was false in her heart. In truth, she cared very little for the Earl of Warren, and there was discomfort in the growing possessiveness he had of her. Soon, there would be other urges for her that she knew would come. But she held tight, played into such things, fore it only enhanced her scheme more. It only became clear too late to many in Downton that all of this, the gifts, the trips, and the patronage was but a fiction, a show for an audience of only one.

She wanted that boy, content in Crawley House, to think that he was being replaced, wanted him to think that she had found a son worthy of her heart. In time, she might even make him believe of other things that young boys of puberty boasted about to their other chaps of beautiful women they were close too. Whatever it would take to get a rise out of the young child she obsessed over. Wherever she went in those years, she made a show of herself and of her new fosterling. But she heard no word of how the young adventurer took such things, if he took it, or truly if he cared at all. But she got no answers from her subtle inquires.

Edith, scornfully, claimed that she did not think it was her sister's business of the private goings on of a child she abandoned. Mama wanted to know why Mary wanted to know about such things of the young adventurer's life. And of Isobel, she had not stepped foot in Downton Abbey since the boy's eviction into her care. And of her former daughter-in-law, in everlasting wrath for the treatment of her only grandson, she had not a word to spare. Even upon the open street, Isobel treated the cold and cruel beauty as if she did not exist at all. As far as Lady Merton was concerned, the wife of her beloved Matthew fell by his side many years ago. That, above all things, would wound Mary the deepest till her dying day. Yet, in her suffering, Mary could find not a lie in such a sentiment.

But many times, over the years, she felt herself thinking that she had gone too far. That what she had done, what she was doing, was not right. The young Earl was so desperate for affection, so eager to do right. And there was love in him, even if it was slowly being mastered by darker impulses. Anna begged her not to pursue such cruel schemes, to cut loose the young gentlemen, and not to prey upon other 'boyish urges' that were starting to appear. And Mary was decent enough to know of such lines she would not cross. But still, she was driven near to madness some nights by the fact that her supposed provocations against the boy had gone unanswered. She had become so uninvolved, so distant, to his life that she knew not anything of it. She was banned from setting foot in Crawley House. Isobel would shut the door in her face, Dickie would ask her to leave, and the boy himself might actually kill her if he saw her in his house. But there was one person who knew his mind, who spent most of her time with him. Though, to that point, she refused to rope her into such things, fore she was the sum total of all Mary's humanity left. But, in a bolt of evil that she could not fight, Mary also knew that the girl, her little girl, was the boy's best friend in the entire world. And that he loved her above all things in this world but for perhaps Marigold.

Even when confronted by Tom, Mary swore that she had nothing to do with this budding friendship and 'puppy love' courtship of Lord Warren and their daughter. But in reality, Mary encouraged it, built it, and fed it small kindling. She only wanted such a thing of childhood dalliance to smoke, but never fire. There was no way, not in a million years, that she would ever give up Sybbie, not to anyone. She was her little girl, her first baby, and the last child left to her. But still, gently, kindly, she pushed him on her, and spoke in hint, in suggestion, that perhaps in several years that a marriage would be rather storybook, wouldn't it? Their fostering ward and the heiress of their motor company fortune, their beautiful little princess? It seems quite a match tailor made for the modern world, would it not? Sybbie would be given a position in society as a Countess, and the House of Warren's debts would be paid off. But she didn't mean it. Once more, she wished only for a reaction, some signal from Crawley House. She was replacing him, and now she was going to give Sybbie, his beloved Sybbie, to this usurper. Clearly that alone should merit some response. But still there was no word, no hint, of any reaction being had to any of Mary's schemes.

Thus, inside, Mary began to worry that she might have started something that she couldn't contain. Rather quickly, Sybbie might have been worked up a bit too much. She rather talked of Eton's champion night and day. She was attracted and fell in love with the cultured sophistication of how he spoke, how blasé he seemed, or as much as a boy of twelve could have. She claimed that her best friend was also highly educated but found talking such 'stuck up nonsense' as her Lord Warren liked to do, only cheapened true wisdom which didn't need any 'damn' preamble. Sybbie was offended for her 'intended' and as such refused to play at Crawley House till he took back all he said of Lord Warren's ridiculous namby-pamby 'gobbledygook'. And in this flaring of tempers between children Tom was beginning to become suspicious, as was Edith who had heard a great deal of Sybbie's supposed nuptials while sleeping over at Edith and Bertie's flat in London with Marigold. Soon, Tom, Edith, and Bertie were putting their heads together. And they had gone to Mama with what they suspected. But still, she assumed that they had not guessed her true plan was, fore no one would have the twist of heart to assume that she would do something so awful, nor rope Sybbie, their crown jewel, into such dark plots.

But Mary couldn't help it. She started out by wanting to provoke him, because, she didn't want him to forget her. The boy, her boy, had been gone, on and off, for years, no one knowing where he went. She did not see him, even around the village. It was the worst thing that Mary could think of, truly. There wasn't an hour that didn't go by in which he wasn't on the forefront of her mind. But she could not bear to think that of herself, he truly did not care. That in his casting out, in his finding of a new life, that he simply wrote her off. That he did not think of her, did not care about her the way she obsessed over him. She loved him, loved him till the hatred ate her alive. But to true ambivalence of herself in her boy's heart would be the very death of Lady Mary Talbot. So, even if she had to plan the wedding herself in the years to come, she would not stop till she had her reaction, till he stormed into the church, cursed her thrice, and carry Sybbie away at the eleventh hour.

Mary had to know that the boy still loved her.

Now it had all come ahead. Now she had gotten her answer that she sought in one look of the blood the boy spilt in reaction to her scheming. But there was no joy, no satisfaction in it. There was only shame, mortification, and a deep guilt that made her loath the very idea of herself. They all knew. All of her family, they had known all along what she was doing. And she got no answers, no reaction, because Mama, Edith, and Tom hid and screened much of Mary's plotting from their boy's view. In truth, they did exactly what Lady Mary had wanted them to do when he was cast out of Downton Abbey in the first place. They had all protected him from the grand lady's wickedness that tried to get at him. But still she pushed, contradicted her wishes. Mary had destroyed all the barriers that she placed between her and her beloved stardust. Now, glancing at the blood stain on the corner of his mouth, the horrific bruise on his cheek, there would never be a person alive in the history of time and space who would hate the very essence of Lady Mary Josephine Crawley more than Mary herself.

But the damage that she had done was not over, not by a long shot. Fore in that look of shame came the sudden realization of the truth to her pawn. In between his thumb and forefinger, the Earl of Warren but had to grasp this gothic maiden's thread and pull ever so slightly. There, in one look, came the unraveling of the entire web of her deceit. Suddenly all the words, all the intimate affections, and expensive gifts. Even the promise of his beautiful and perfect Sybbie. It was all a lie. The prefect realized that he was but a bit part in an elaborate stage production put on for only one person's benefit. Lady Mary, the woman that he loved as far back as he could remember, did not love him back. In fact, he wondered if she even liked him, if she could even stand him? Was anything about his time here at Downton Abbey real? With a dreadful certainty he came to guess that it was not. Then, whither by pain or sudden shock, he felt so incredibly sick to his stomach, his world spinning out of control. Both in the literal and the metaphorical.

What was he to do now? Who was he truly? Even for a man grown, this level of duplicity would drive an icicled stake through his heart. But for a young man, a youth, how does one cope with the idea that everything they thought they knew was untrue? To realize, in the worst moment of their life, that nothing that they thought they were was actually who they were. Was he not still the Earl of Warren, or was that but a fiction that his Lady made up as well? Yes, he suddenly thought. Yes, that was also a lie. Fore there was no Earl of Warren anymore. There was a simple schoolboy, choked and confused in the miasma of a history of one woman's terrible heartache that whisked an evil that he might never understand. The Earl of Warren, the smooth talking and continental chap, was created by a desire to impress, to have, the beautiful Lady Mary Talbot. He had wanted her to think him an equal to the many suitors that hung about the bell all day wherever she roamed. His mind rebelled against such an explosion of devastation, and for a while he did not know who or where he was. All he could do was look up at the woman in the Irishman's grip, see the forlorn and broken haunted beauty who had not a wisp of a soul at that very moment.

He could not think of what to do or say. He was in a terrible shock that lasted a long time. But after a pensive flash, as was the case for most in helpless situations, all confusion and blank darkness took a tint of red. Then, the color darkened and spread, and for a while, it was all he could see, flashing obnoxiously in a great intensity that smoldered a fire deep within. But it was not Lady Mary that received his wrath, but the object of her desire. In all of but a space of an instant, the prefect felt but a taste of what it must have been like for his foe to see him with both Mary and Sybbie all these years. Though, it was not jealousy that drove the adventurer to this conflict, fore he was the son of Matthew Crawley, and thus was made of better material than most. But for Lord Warren it was the black wound of a jilted heart which knew now that not only would he not gain the woman he loved, but that this ragged half-breed, this Beatrix Potter character, rugged and unkempt was the beautiful woman's heart's desire. Whether by wholesome or darker need, this rustic was the Gothic Lady's true love.

And for such a turn of cruel fate he would pay with his life for this outrage!

Once more, the boy was taken unawares when locked in a primal gaze with Lady Mary. There was no idea where the beaten and horrifically injured Earl had the strength or will to bound to his feet, but he snarled and turned like a rabid animal, eyes widened by vicious pain in every pour. He drove the adventurer into the rug with a shoulder to his side, lifting his legs off the ground. There was a cry of dismay from the watching crowd when the boy was thrown hard onto the floor with a painful thump. Again, and for the final time, the youth showed his true colors by attacking an enemy while his back was turned. He fell on the shocked kid that didn't see it coming at all. This wasn't a part of the fight, in this attack there was no rules. He, indeed, was going to kill this rustic rabbit once and for all. But again, and not for the last time, it was the young explorer who would suffer the consequences of Lady Mary's sins. Fore, his crime was holding the obsessive attention of a broken and deeply damaged mother who hated him for how much she loved him.

But the rage of the Earl grew to an uncontrollable fever pitch as the punches thrown by broken hands only landed on floor and carpet. Even pinned, the boy's training was instinct, and his natural ability as a fighter was unequalled. He jerked his head back and forth on the floor, avoiding each punch. Grasping the Earl's hand that held his throat, the boy drove a knee deep into his foe's solar plexus. Then, with an intake of air through his nostril, the adventurer drove an open palm into the bloody face of the prefect. Staggered again, the youth let out a startle of surprise when the boy used his leverage to kick over a foot and rolled the Eton chap off him and onto his back in one smooth and slick motion. When they landed with a heavy thud, the kid's foot was on the prefect's chest that was already sporting the dusty impact prints of the boy's shoes from earlier.

The onlookers were taken aback by what they saw. Never had they seen such a set of moves. Surely, they had seen wrestling, and the sport was taught in most schools. But this was some art of grappling and leverage mechanics that they had no concept for. Only Edith and Bertie had seen the youth use it before, when tossing around a bully that had taken Marigold's favorite dolly and would not give it back till, she could find someone to 'take it' back. By the time Bertie and Edith had come to demand fair play, their nephew had already leveraged and rolled the bully. Of what it was called they couldn't quite understand. But it was an art of grapple fighting still being taught to him called " _ **Judo**_ ", or something of the like.

But the last straw had been broken. As he had been taught for some years, the adventurer had mastered his emotions so that they did not master him in battle. But his patients had run thin as the fight continued. But now there was none to be found. It was not jealousy, as stated. But there was a frustration that boiled over. He was tired of this war that he did not ask for. He was tired of being ambushed and attacked for things he had not done, for crimes he did not commit. There was already a Turkish bounty on his head for the death of a man years before he was even born. That man's mother had convinced the Mullahs of Iran to place a Fatwa upon his head. Thus, his life was ever in danger by Shia Islamic zealots and skilled and deadly bounty hunters from Shanghai to Calcutta. All, because, of the sins of a mother when she was young and thoughtless, who allowed a vile man to seduce her, rather than ring for help.

Now, he was here, once more fighting a battle that the same woman had perpetrated in her hatred for him. For too long had so many come to despise him based on lies told and believed in these halls by those whom he once loved. In their intolerance of who he was, in their anger for the golden yore of many days' past which they were settled and happy, who they saw being ended by all he could not do. They had put a target on his back, they had all, in flippant words, invited strangers in love with some aspect or the other of Downton Abbey believe that he was the villain, the reason that happiness had gone away in the grand country manor. Thus, there came a never-ending slew of assault of every kind against him. Till, a young boy could not give his real name in the high-end places of London without being spat upon by those of his own family's class. But now he was through being the victim of their follies and slander. Once and for all, he would show the entire court of the false kings just what happens when they pick a fight with him.

The punches that fell upon the bloodied face of the Earl had a sickening thud to them that made all wince. A rage as black as tar fell over the young boy, and he let Lord Warren have it all. It was the betrayal of her advising the prefect against him. It was the way that she looked at him when he arrived with the medicine too late. It was the way that she used to hold them, to look at him and Sybbie knowing that they were the very center of her universe. It was the very idea that after all those memories of happiness and love. it could be thrown away so easily. That _he_ could be crushed and thrown away like her office rubbish, replaced, and left to contend with all the consequences of her life before his birth. There was a torrent of hate that filled him with a burning aggression that made him want to scream. And roar he did as he continued to punch the Earl of Warren that lay helplessly under his pinning foot.

No one made a move to stop him. No one made a move, period. They were transfixed on the absolute horror of watching one child beat the other into a bloody mess on a Lord's library floor. While others were flat out afraid of the young kid. The sounds he made were animalistic and terrifying as he punched the Earl in the face over and over again. For his family it was with vicious shame that they did not take control. Fore they had known, for years, of this scheme. They knew what Mary was doing, and they did not stop her, did not stand up to her. They had let her use her grief as a shield, as a tool, to propagate this moment. She was a woman who had lost her daughter, the very symbol of all their happiness in the glow of the first royal visit and ball. And in that trauma, in that sorrow, they allowed her to grieve in any way she chose. But now they saw only their culpability in this god-awful scene. Deep inside they all knew that they had a chance to stop it before it started, but they didn't.

No one knew how long the beating went on, minutes, hours, centuries? They couldn't say. But eventually the boy suddenly stopped. Something in his eyes glistened as he lifted his fist. The blood, the expression on the Eton chap's face … He had seen it before. The adventurer was suddenly filled with restraint. He lifted a fist up to strike again, but faltered, only half-heartedly bringing it down partially before pausing. He breathed heavily, chest heaving the belching smoke of a petering fire in his soul. To everyone else he seemed so incredibly haunted, as if some memory of the past had overtaken him completely. Then, there was sadness in his long gaze at whoever he saw in that moment.

" **GEORGE!"**

" _George … George!" The beautiful woman cried in shock and fear at the sight of the sword through her belly._

_Her mind went blank and there was a horror that rushed through her at the sight of herself impaled. More and more did she call for the grown man, the man she loved, reeling away till collapsing on the frozen ground. She felt no pain, but the world was darkening. "George!" She cried out in fear, waiting for him to take her in his arms like he had all their lives when she was scared. But she felt only a boy, cut and beaten, his brows and hair frosted stiff. His breath sputtered as he cradled her head against his chest rocking her back and forth. She wanted to tell her baby boy that she didn't want him to see his mama like this, so afraid, covered in blood. Her words stumbled when trying to get him to find his daddy, she needed his daddy, the man she loved. But then, she realized that the way the boy held her was so like the way it had been when his father held her … and he had George's sad and haunted eyes._

" _ **A rat for the furnace and a princess for the feasting table!"**_

_The boy looked up and saw the masked figure of Professor Moriarty taking in the scene. The boy holding the dying figure of Mina Murray. His eyes were caught in shock at the sight of a woman run through by sword, and the frightened cries with his name upon her lips as if he could save her. But the horror was replaced by a sudden dark look. The vivid imagery of the idea that when they were both dead that this villain of the ancient world would eat the fair flesh of the beautiful woman in his arms did not horrify him … it only pissed him off._

_Quickly, as the figure of the sorcerer approach, the boy removed the artifact from his neck and hung it about Mina's. He did not know why he did so, other than that from his own experiences that the strange item and its glow had given him comfort from fear and doubt since he bore it. He did not know if it would do the same for her, but he hoped it would. But he tried not to think of the woman's gruesome gasp of shock when, with squinted eyes, he drew the sword from the fallen beauty's sleek belly._

_Turning, he took a defensive posture with the incredibly long blade. It was clear that the weapon was made for a figure that was at least seven feet. In the boy's hands the blade looked the size of a Scottish Claymore or some Great Sword of the Chivalric ages. Yet, for its length, the sword in hand was remarkably light in weight. Though, clunky and unwieldly due to its sheer size in the hands of one so small, it was not for its weight which troubled the boy. In fact, in the hands of the adventurer, the blade gave a different song, powerful and majestic, sensing the valiantly noble cause of the young hero who was anciently descended from its original master, whose spirit of that king's daughter he defended._

_But to the sight of the young adventurer with the great sword, the ancient evil laughed. He seemed a child who wore his father's war helm for play. In the eyes of the seemingly victorious shadow of the fell spirit, his young foe looked utterly ridiculous and out of his depth with such a ludicrously large sword held at the ready. But to the mockery the boy did not flinch. He held his ground, glaring as proudly and daringly as a Knight of the Round Table at this, his last stand. He did not fear for himself. But instead he stood as stalwart sentry, ready to defend the fallen lady's body from monstrous mutilation, butchery, and cannibalism. He gritted his teeth, twitching his shoulder muscles for a large arcing swing of the great sword as the figure tensed to pounce like a hell hound, darkness drawn about him like a cloak._

_But then they stopped on the cusp of the final battle._

_All about them the pale glowing fountains of artic cold seawater began to change. Slowly, the freezing sub-zero temperatures of the chamber of evil cultist religion receded. The salt that choked the amphitheater dissipated and the air was made fresh. The ice upon the blade melted and ran in warm streams down over the boy's hands. All around him, the thundering water of the very bottom of the ocean was now clear and clean, as water taken from a blessed river of some land untouched by man. The fog about his feet felt warm and pleasant as the foaming mist atop the bottom of a waterfall in paradise. From the once columns of pale icy death there was now a golden light that lit the vile chamber in an ethereal glow. A look of amazement came over the once grim young explorer ready to die. While in front of him, with cold and shadows extinguished, his foe was in dismay. In the amphitheater, filled with fresh water, clean air, and ethereal light, the masked evil coward away from the boy …_

_Or what was behind him._

_Turning quickly, ready to defend himself, the boy halted. Rising from a laying position was the body of Mina Murray. Yet, she was not Mina, nor was she even human to the eye. The creature before him was ageless and beautiful, filled with much sorrow and longing. But to face her was akin to look upon the ocean and be gripped with its vastness. To be overpowered by its majesty and the sudden insignificance of one's own worldly troubles in the scheme of cosmic importance. The woman that slowly was raised into the air, wreathed by heavenly light, was awesome and terrible to behold. Her translucent gown of blue silk fluttered and flapped as if caught in some unseen wind. From her raven locks and slender elegant fingers beams of light were shown like rays of the sun. Her eyes disappeared and were consumed by blazing azure light as if her entire insides were replaced by sentient illumination from the throne of God himself. And there, as if afloat while submerged, was the relic that was entrusted to him that he had looped about the wounded woman's neck. It also was glowing in a blinding light that matched the woman's eyes. Her beautiful face was expressionless, yet there was kindled a wrath in the show of divine like power._

_She said not a word. Fore perhaps even a single phrase might have leveled the entire ancient city and sunken continent into oblivion … as well as all upon it. The boy could make out the same enchanting song that he heard in the throne room that had led him to the mural of the magical princess. But this time the song was not soft nor enticing, instead it was strong, powerful, and bore a fortissimo of an entire heavenly chorus that emulated from one angelic woman. Her gaze of majesty and authority was turned to the hunched and spindly beast that coward from her. There, in her gaze, without such advantages and illusions, a truth was brought to golden light. There in front of him was a gaunt and gangling mutation that was heavy with the burden of age. Unlike those of creation whose light came from the illumination within when surrounded by darkness, the boy saw that there was no darkness that could be projected from that of evil when light was shown. With the void and cold stolen from him, the figure of once mighty evil seemed petty and pitiable. He was a creature of small trite matters who obsessed over endlessly small and fleeting gratifications. And in the light, ever did it retreat and look for somewhere to hide away. But there was no running from the angelic maiden._

_Little by little, the columns of fresh water began to glow brighter and brighter in their ethereal light. And where they touched the ancient evil, sizzling vapor of foul stench cooked from him. The boy, by instinct covered his eyes from the growing intensity of the light. But he found, oddly, that it did not affect him as it did his foe. He looked up from his veiling forearm to find the room slowly disappearing till they were surrounded by light. Meanwhile, the smell of his enemy intensified and from him came a terrible screeching howl that pierced the youth's ears. There was something akin to nails on a chalkboard mixed with how one might have thought a gluttonous and large arachnid might sound as it was roasted over a fire. It thrashed and scurried in the white warmth of the golden ether about them._

_But, alas, fate was upon the House of Grantham that day, and the doom of its heirs was written long ago._

_If only for a few more moments evil might have been destroyed forever. However, in the eleventh hour, the warmth of light, purity of water, and the power of the divine creature faltered. Whether by fate, her wounds, or by the plotting of a greater master of the universes of the world, the vile evil was spared destruction. And as the darkness and cold returned to the temple of the Dark Lord, the beautiful woman slowly floated back to a lying helplessness in a frigid pool. Quickly the boy whirled, sword at the ready, but he saw only the tailing smoke of a sizzling figure fleeing from the room. Trailing from the evil creature was his shadow, but it was not that of a man, but of a large_ _**scorpion.** _

_For a moment, the boy wished to pursue, to finish what was started. But of this place, he knew nothing, while his foe had built it many thousands of years ago. It would be folly to play "Blind Man's Bluff" in such a wicked place, as was the old knowledge from his Captain of warning that older and fouler things could be found in the deeper places of the world. And perhaps they found refuge in the basements and dungeons of this evil temple._

_The sword clattered on the ancient stone as the boy rushed to the woman's side. Once more he lifted her upper body off the floor and cradled it against him. Mina looked gaunt now, pale as death. Her cerulean eyes gleaming in the darkness, contrasting heavily against her skin color. She seemed drained and weak, every drop of light within used to protect him in his last stand to protect her. Their coagulation of frothing breaths made it hard for him to see her face. But he felt her eyes on him, and in them was a look that he had never seen Ms. Murray give him in the entire year and a half that he had known her. Instead, something told him that it was not Mina who was looking at him. It was someone familiar, someone he knew better than even himself. But he found it impossible to put a name to it. But all the same he felt his heart drop into his stomach, and tears filled his eyes, the warmth of them steaming in the cold all about them._

" _It's going to be okay … I'm gonna get you outta here." The boy tried to sound hard. But his voice cracked, and he sounded more his age than he ever had before._

_But the woman didn't say anything. She only gave a tired and distant smile, as if his voice triggered some fond memories of a past yet lived. She reached up and touched his face, cupping his cheek as a single tear fell down hers. He didn't understand … he still would never understand that moment, only that he felt very much the same way he had standing by the nursery door when Thomas carried the baby out. She was wrapped in her favorite blanket, pressed tightly to the butler's chest, and she looked like she was sleeping. The frozen boy holding the saving medicine in hand, in very much the shape as he was now, had slowly removed his tattered and winter stained flat cap as they passed without a word. Now, as blood ran down the woman's mouth, her body jerking with misting gasps, he was there again._

_Droplets of tears fell on her pale and frost flecked face, his hands threading her raven mane of ice crusted curls. The beauty's eyes lightened with love and weakly she pulled from her neck the fob watch and hung it back around his. Then, when his head was bowed, she pulled him down so that their foreheads touched. It was in the exact way that two children in the village of Downton did and would continue to do even when they were grown into the prime of adulthood. Nuzzling his nose weakly, she whispered into his ear her final words._

" _Beannaithe a bheith ar an laoch de mo shaol agus curadh mo chroí_ _…_ _slán liom mo ghrá_ _…"_

_And thus, there passed from the circles of the world Lady Sybil Afton Branson. Her second death for no greater a love than that of her first yet to come._

" _No, no, no … it's supposed to be different!" He cried ugly tears, the tears of a boy his own age. "It wasn't supposed to happen again!" He sobbed and begged. "I swore it wouldn't … I swore it would be different this time!" His breath steamed as his entire frame shook as he rocked the dead woman closer, begging her to come back in hoarse sobs that misted upon her forever lovely and stilled face._

" _Pashchim ka aadamee!"_

_As he sobbed over the woman, his forehead still buried against hers, he heard people running full speed through the dark amphitheater. They were a collection of men of different ages, races, ethnicities, and origins. They wore a uniformed peacoat of wool that were dark blue or black. In their hands were an assortment of weapons from cutlasses, to curving katana blades, and large automatic guns that spat crystal tipped harpoons at ungodly speeds. Each man was grim and hard- beaten and bloody, looking to have been through battle most trying. But all of these hard men swore long ago to follow only one, who stood at the head of their company._

_He was a tall man, near seven feet. His skin was olive colored, perhaps darker in another life before he spent much of the rest of it below the depths of the ocean. He wore a distinguished and regal beard of white, like all of that mighty Sikh race. Upon his head was a turban of black silk, it was threadbare, and battle worn, with long wrappings stained with blood falling in scarf like loops about his neck. He wore a peacoat much to the same of his men, though it was accented by a sash of regality and station across his chest, pinned by a broach of gold that was in the design of the capitalized letter "N". In his hand was a long curving blood stained Sikh sword with a jewel encrusted hilt and handle fit for a king. But it was the man's eyes that would never be forgotten once you saw them. They were wild, piercing, and all seeing. After a century upon the waterways of the known and unknown world, this prince amongst men had forgotten nothing and forgiven none._

_He was a madman that could rule an empire, whose voice could lead revolutions, and who inspired a fanatic loyalty from those whom he counted as dear as his brothers. But of the world of men he had long since lost all ambition, all hope. His hatred for humanity was only sated by his divorce from its comings and goings with no care of the rise and fall of its monsters and saints. He was a genius, a villain of old who conquered death itself. Yet, found no use in the ambition to rule the kennels of wild dogs that trod the land and call themselves enlightened. What he treasured most of all things was knowledge of the unknown. And of it he would learn by peace or take by force all the secrets of the universe which would be at his grasp. But what interest or kinship found in an exceptionally insignificant young boy of English noble birth was unknown, and never will be. But as the ground shook and the water caved through his hydro shields, he would not leave him behind._

_The group of men ran to the side of the youth. "Pashchim ka aadamee!" The Captain called to his apprentice. He stopped only a moment, his mind skipping a beat. It wasn't just the sight of his only apprentice holding Ms. Murray, one of his few valued friends in the world. It was the sight of boy holding a frozen and lifeless corpse of a queenly woman. If only a second, he was reminded of his wife and daughters, and the images that drove him into great fits of madness and blood lust even a century later. But then the ground shook, and above them an explosion in the form of a powerful geyser of water blew another hole through the silver roof of the evil temple. With a sobering blink he turned back to the crying child who rocked the corpse of Ms. Murray back and forth._

" _She's gone." He said with hardened heart to the boy. But still he would not let her go. "Pashchim ka aadamee, she's gone!" it came out as an order of strictness._

" _Captain, barabara ni natte imasu!" The Japanese engineer cried, his head band tattered, and his ancestral blade blooded._

_The Sikh, grabbing up the king's sword, had but to motion his men away._

" _No!"_

_Then, with a cry, the boy desperately tried to hold onto the body of the woman. But a large and bearded Scotsman with Celtic runes tattooed to his face in blue ink, and a Norseman with long blonde hair half in braids hooked their crew mate underarm on both sides._

" _She's gone, laddie! She's gone!" The big Scot called over the thunder of the deadly pale glowing water that was starting to crack open the rounded and domed temple apart like an egg._

_As the two men dragged the boy through puddle and pool of the collapsing chamber, he looked out at the vile amphitheater one last time. A deadly cold mist began to fill it, while gaps and crevices became swimming ponds of collecting water. But it was not the ruin of the evil temple that drew his gaze, but the decapitated head of Captain Quartermain. His body floating atop the icy water at the foot of the amphitheater stage. It was other members of the Nautilus crew, faces he had known for years now, his brothers, that lay strewn dead in the attempt to rescue Ms. Murray of which he was the last left standing of that gallant company. But most of all, as they dragged him through the doors, it was the woman upon the floor that held his gaze. With all his heart and will did he wish, even now, to go back for her. Not to leave a lady so fine and fair in the clutches of this evil place._

_But even then, the cold mist shrouded her body and she was consumed forever by the darkness as the heavy double doors shut upon the chamber with a loud thud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tie-in Material
> 
> Here you'll find a list of the material which ties in directly to the Downton Expanded Universe and Continuity of this continuing Story Series
> 
> "Beren and Luthien", "The Akallabeth", "The Lost Road", and "The Notion Club Papers" – By J.R.R. Tolkien
> 
> "The League of Extraordinary Gentleman (Omnibus)" – By Allan Moore & Kevin O'Neill
> 
> "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" – By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
> 
> "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" – By Jules Vern
> 
> "King Solomon's Mines & Other Adventures of Allan Quartermain" – By Sir H Rider Haggard
> 
> "Dracula (2013)" - By NBC/Universal Television
> 
> "FU Manchu" – character created by Sax Rohmer
> 
> "The Mask of Zorro" - Sony/Amblin studios


	5. Conclusion

For a long time, the crowd in the Downton library watched as the boy loomed over the beaten and bloody Earl. With foot pinning him to the ground, a bloody fist raised, he was poised to strike. But he, instead, lingered. His eyes were glassy as emotions in memories overtook his mind. The last time he was stooped over a bloody figure had been Ms. Murray in the halls of the usurper. Slowly, the rage died, leaving smoking scorched black embers where a wildfire had burned. Several times he lifted his arm to continue the beating, but instead each one was dropped, fist being shook, half-heartedly, at his side. From his remastering of himself, there came wisdom without the blinders of anger.

From hatred came understanding, and from violence there was kinship. Fore in the peaking irises of the Earl's swollen shut eyes there was a look he knew well. There was a figure who knew not who he was anymore. Someone who had suffered a great betrayal, and when drawn into battle was so thoroughly beaten. His dislike of the Eton chap did not halt or falter, and neither would he look for friendship or tolerance. It would be long before the things said and names called to Marigold would be forgotten, and surely forgiveness was out of the question. But there was an understanding which, even if only came one way, it was there none-the-less between foes.

The Earl of Warren was one more boy thrust into a position of power that should've been filled by a father who never came home. All his life he had been put upon with the pressures of responsibility to a family name and future by grandparents and other such relatives who didn't realize that the world was changing. But then, how could they when so much of an Empire's future lay dead in the mud of all the awful places with the famous names in France? They were all children of privilege dragged into the stagnant Edwardian time bubble left in the wake of the dead youth and lingering old of a crumbling Imperial aristocracy. In some twisted way, the young adventurer saw his reflection in the battered enemy under trod. And he wondered if some things were different, if he wouldn't be some version of the old villain himself had the ruling women in his family had their way.

The library was silent as they watched the young man slowly remove his foot from the prefect's chest. For a few steps he backed away from the beaten youth. Even now did the adventurer observe his master's teachings about turning one's back on a wounded animal. But when he was satisfied that the Earl would not, or could not, get up, he turned to face the crowd that looked on. They were horrified, shocked silent by such a display of savagery, forgetting that the adventurer was the one who had been attacked, both times. But still, and tellingly, most had no idea who this young man was, nor why he was even allowed inside Downton Abbey in the first place. No matter the wrong, the gentry would protect one of their own, and no matter if they knew the true identity of this boy, they'd never accept him as one of them. But still, there was some sympathy more found strongly in those who still loved him when the boy, with shame, wiped his teary eyes with his sleeve. No matter his training, his experiences on a sunken continent … children still cried in the wake of powerful emotions.

Everyone watched as the boy turned and slowly, with just a slight limp, began to collect his scrolls, books, and letters newly found from the floor where they lay scattered. With no help from anyone, he slipped each priceless document into his leather pack clasped with a silver four-pointed star broach. Still, no one said a word, watching in either outrage or sorrow at the quiet collection of his things that he picked up from the floor or dug out of the debris of the fight. But when he was done, the adventurer carried his stuffed pack a way. But, then, a black ashen cane with silver pummel halted his journey. He looked up to see that it had been the Dowager Lady Grantham who looked fierce and mortified.

"And where do you think you're going with that?" She asked flippantly. The boy did not say a word to the old woman. But his quiet haunted face began to form a dark glare at a woman, who in particular, out of all in his family, he hated above all.

"Granny …" Edith called with some scorn in her voice.

But the old woman held up a hand to silence her granddaughter. "I believe there are things in that …" She ticked her head slightly in paused reproach. "Pack ..." She finally said with disdain. "That do not belong to you." She finished.

"Mama, don't be ridiculous." Lady Rosamund called out from Robert and Cora's side.

"Nobody asked for your opinion, Rosamund." The old woman snapped with a screen of congeniality in front of the courtiers. "I am simply asking our _guest_ , to return what he has taken." She announced, making an emphasis of the word 'guest' to drive the knife a little deeper into the savage. But the boy only glared, refusing to acknowledge her words.

"He's no thief!" Edith argued in fierce outrage as if she were the boy's very mother … which was not an impossibility to the other guests, if rumors were true about the Marchioness of Hexham's past.

Lady Violet turned pleasantly to her granddaughter. "I never said he was a thief, my dear." She flickered a look to Robert that was begging for his help. Whatever it was that was in the boy's pack, whatever it was he found, the matriarch of the House of Grantham did not want it in his hands. "Thieves are people who walk out of other's homes with things that don't belong to them." Violet continued. "He is still in the house." There was a poignancy to her sentence.

But when she didn't hear Robert chime in, she turned in time to see her son locking eyes with a fierce looking Cora who was daring the older man to say something. The Countess of Grantham was silent, as to not involve herself in a scene. But everyone who loved her knew exactly where she stood and what her position was on this matter. There would be hell to pay for even a single word of descent spoken against her boy or even in support of the Dowager's veiled accusations against him.

The adventurer, with a roll of his eyes at the tiresome old woman, just continued forward. But suddenly he felt a hand grab his pack of fine leather. With a quick turn of sudden wrath, he smacked away roughly the groping hand and stepped toward them in aggression. It was the Dowager who pulled away her hand in shock, but to the old woman's credit she did not cow at the aggressive instinct of one whose blood was still hot from the fight. His action caused several gentlemen to step forward. After the display they just witnessed, no one was quite sure if the boy would strike an old woman.

It wasn't that Lady Violet thought, particularly, that the boy was a thief. In fact, she was fairly sure that he was not. To think so would be to assume that Isobel keeps and cultivates criminals in her house. Never had there been more of an absurdity from the woman's tall ivory tower upon the moral high ground. Lady Violet in most circumstances would find Isobel's boy rather interesting. If he had been Sybil's son, as much as he was her spitting image, if he had been Edith's son, as he so ably had her unconditional love, she would've been content. Even if he had been Mary's own Lucy Smith, a love child born and raised in secret, she would've been fine with him. But he was neither of these things. This boy, this wild rebel filled with Isobel's nonsense and Sybil's fiery heart, was the heir of the House of Grantham. He was supposed to be the very future of their family. Yet, he insisted on behaving like a savage.

There was no regard for all the things that Violet, Robert, and Mary thought was essential. He wore commoner's clothing, his hair was grown out and tussled unkempt, he openly spoke Gaelic on the street. He refused to go to Eton or Harrow like normal boys, instead attended the village school under Moseley's teachings, that was when he wasn't disappearing for weeks at a time doing lord knows what. And when he returns to Crawley House it's with arms full of the oddest treasures, scrolls, and books, with strange adornments from Africa or the Orient on his clothing or about his neck. He was foul tempered, with a tongue like a razor, and he delighted in showing as much disrespect to Violet as Isobel and Cora would allow.

The real fear was simply that Violet had lost all control of the future of her family. The boy was too much like Sybil, both in temper and looks. She could not get him to do anything she wished, nor did he heed anything she ever told him. He misliked the things that she said to Isobel in quarrel, and he vehemently refuted the gossiped insults paid to Cora in his hearing. He would do no such thing as ever listening to anything she said 'must' or 'will' be done. Not even sending Robert would do any good, he would only come back in foul-mood and ill-tempered, snapping at her to 'leave sleeping dogs, Mama!' before tossing his hat and stomping up the stairs. When hearing that what he needed was a good 'rod', the boy only laughed. His reply while passing the two old woman in the sitting room was that maybe Isobel could borrow Violet's. But they should fear that the Dowager wouldn't remember how to stand without it lodged so far up her ass … that is if the old fossil still has one. Wine had shot forth from Lady Bagshaw's nose onto Robert, while Lucy, Tom, and Thomas excused themselves from the dining room in giggle fits when Violet relayed the exchange to an annoyed Cora who became the sounding board for this one-woman complaint department against her boy.

He was no peer in training, but an uncivilized Jacobin, no better than a Republican terrorist. And it troubled old Lady Grantham the more, because, her life was fading. She wanted peace in the knowledge that Mary had everything under control, and for a while she thought she had it. But now, in one moment of terrible tragedy, the future of their family was in true jeopardy. The boy did not fear 'the frightening old lady' that kept everyone in line. Instead, he was coming for her, and in time he would destroy everything that she and Mary worked so hard to maintain.

And the first step of their destruction was in that pack of his.

When Lady Violet became the Countess of Grantham many decades ago, she, being a fastidious girl, learned all there was to know about the House of Grantham's history. And being very keen of mind, she began to realize, rather quickly, that it was all impossible and implausible hogwash. What she rather looked for afterward was where exactly the Earls had hidden the real history. But once she found out where it was hidden, she made it her mission to preserve those secrets. Sworn to never read such documents, books, and scrolls, in case it would be too good not to gossip about. Instead, Violet guarded those secret places night and day for forty years. She knew not what was in those scrolls, books, and letters, but she knew that they were hidden for a reason. And whatever reason that might be, it would hurt her children and their family if it ever got out. But now, coming into this library, she found that not only did the explorer just find one spot or two, he found the whole bloody thing. Now, in the most frightening of situations, the entire history of the House of Grantham, the real history, was in the pack of a boy that had no right to call himself their heir. In one swift stroke he could destroy the very reputation of their family, have them dismissed from the Imperial Court, make Mary a pariah for all time.

"I said turn out your pack, you little animal!" She demanded hotly with a stamp of her cane on the floor.

In a shot of fey anxiety, thinking of all the things suddenly unsettled, of the great issues now facing her family, Violet was plagued by ill-timed cropping of true humanity in the very fear of death. So many things once thought settled at the Royal Ball was now coming apart by the seams. But now the old woman's time was coming to an end. She held on tightly, afraid of what would become of her family once she was gone. And in that fear the Dowager persecuted that whom she thought was the largest threat. It was as if she could feel the buzzard circling, their sharpened beaks already tearing into the flesh of the darkest of secrets held by the Crawley family she ever guarded with all her will and skill.

But, in her moment of such a rare loss of composure, a flaring up of temper, she knew she'd regret it. From behind the boy she saw Robert squeeze his eyes shut and sigh under his breath. Edith looked absolutely horrified, and Mary shocked. But of all things, the sound of wood squealing in protest echoed slightly. There, by the glass doors of the patio to the garden path, Cora stood alone. She seemed stoic, her lovely face a mask of pleasantness. But under her grip, her knuckles were pale as she gripped the back of a chair extremely hard, the legs rattling slightly as her teeth clenched tightly under her ruby lips. It seemed that it was taking a true act of God for her not to give into the protective lioness flash of retaliation. Yet, she was sure that would be nothing compared to what Isobel would do when she heard what Violet did and said in this moment.

But to her insult, the boy was hot and possessed with a feral look of hate. Indeed, the young adventurer before the old woman was truly perilous. Had he been allowed to get up and leave, without provocation then the matter would've been truly in hand by the likes of Cora, Edith, and Bertie. But now, so close after the fight, pushed by someone he truly despised, there was lit such a terrible and reckless malice inside that was but the son of a cold mother that had possessed Lady Mary years ago. In his eyes and face was bore a bitterness and hatred unmatched. There were few things that the boy tolerated from the likes of the Old Countess, and she knew this very well. But at the accusation that he was unwelcome, a thief, in his own house, that such an insult would be sanctioned, it had pulled him into an irrational madness to which no one who lived in the house would escape. In him was the fell instincts of his mother, and like a bull seeing red, he'd torch everything that his persecutors held dear right in front of them just to see their dismay as it burned.

Violet Crawley knew her transgressions against the boy, did not apologize for them, but would slowly learn to grieve them by her end. Fore, in what one would only surmise was an aloof and foolish mishandling of a delicate situation, it had been the Dowager that had strongly advised Robert and Mary to have the boy removed from Downton after the death of the baby. Everyone had been so tense at the time, she thought it would've been better if they cut out the main reactive in the toxic atmosphere. He was a boy that they really wouldn't have to worry about till much further down the road. She knew people in high offices of some very prestigious boarding academies that would teach the boy what was what. But to this, the boy told the old woman to 'go fly a kite', that no one tells him where to go and what to do … certainly not a 'warped old crow'.

But her arrogance and smug amusement went to dismay when Isobel and Cora backed him against her, telling Violet plainly that she had no authority in these matters. Even when Mary and Robert were sent to lay down the Dowager's law, they too were sent away with their tails between their legs. Isobel was fierce then, with Edith and Bertie's backing, saying that if they were entrusting his care to Isobel and Cora, then they would make decisions for their grandson's well-being from then on, needing not Violet nor Mary's permission, consultation, or even opinion. Nothing Violet did could make her friend and daughter-in-law change their minds. It would be a cold day in Hell before Ladies Grantham and Merton would ever send their only grandson away to be starched and ironed into aristocratic indoctrination. Thus, much to Old Lady Grantham and Mary's growing fear, the boy was left ever to linger on the periphery like an ominous thunder cloud flashing alight in the distant night.

And it was truly the first boom of thunder that startles before the rain when he did what he had in this moment.

It was more than being the reason that he had been cast out of his home. It was that Violet Crawley represented everything that the boy hated about his family. He knew what she wanted and why she wanted it. She wanted the books, documents, and journals so she could destroy them. Lady Violet wished to fire the memories of the Black Dragon and his fair Lady Elfstone's epic romance, the Second Countess's star-crossed love with her Viscount of Downton Abbey, the true father of the Third Earl. All of which would be lost forever in order to protect the pride and nobility of one evil man's lies. The old woman was everything that was wrong in this world. She would rather burry the truth, destroy it, than live with it. Her lessons in lying, backstabbing, and prejudices had poisoned his family for generations, of Lady Mary in particular. One had only to look between the cold beauty and her American mama and see that it was not from Cora that much of Mary's dark impulses were gained. What she thought she could get away with, could say to people, and the way she treated them, it all came from a woman who took a baby away from her teenage mother and filled her with outdated and vapid notions of vile aristocratic beliefs in eugenics. Now, they had the gall to sit by and think they could tell people how to live. That these two women have convinced themselves that they had the authority to shape his destiny or cast him out as usurper and thief. In his madness, there was only one way to truly show both matriarch and her beautiful gothic crony just what he thought of them and their self-aggrandizing nonsense.

All the air in the room was audibly sucked out when the boy, with pure venom, spat at the feet of Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham.

It looked as if the old woman was suffering from a stroke, for her eyes bugged out in muted rage, and her mouth continued to move, though nothing came from it. Lord Grantham was incensed but was frozen in utter shock at such an unprecedented action of distilled aggression of the purest of disrespect. Edith's dark eyes were wide as silver dollars, her hand clutching Bertie's arm in absolute disbelief. Bertie simply rubbed his forehead wearily with one hand, while the other clutched Edith's. Meanwhile Tom just shut his eyes, seeming to bare some heavier weight that fell about his shoulders. No one could see what Cora's reaction was, she simply stared out the window silently. But as for Mary the woman looked at the young adventurer in wonder.

It was akin to someone burning a sacred religious item in effigy or running a wetted defiling paint brush over a masterwork. There were no words to describe the outrage that transcended anger and reached a plain of consciousness in which nothing made sense at the very core of someone's being. Everything that Lady Mary Talbot had believed herself to be, believed in, was tied to her beloved waspish granny. When she was little and realized that she could never be her mama, no matter how she wished to be, Lady Violet, the Countess of Grantham, became who she really wished to emulate. It never occurred to her to be, or strive to be, anything else. Thus, when her child, born and bred from her body, spat, actually spat, upon that same woman in a show of absolute hatred for everything she, they all, stood for. There was simply no words or emotions to quantify such a truly baffling event.

Leaving his accuser speechless under the dark malice of his hate filled eyes, the boy shrugged a leather strap upon a shoulder with a jangle. But he was far from being done. He was now fully mastered by a deep seeded anger that stretched long and far inside him. It was the type of recklessness in smoldering rage that once revealed Marigold's identity to Bertie Pelham on the morning that he was to announce his marriage to Edith. But instead of a younger sister who was all the target of such hateful emotions, the boy instead punched up at those who held too tightly the prestige of such a fine tomb as this crumbling relic of days long past. That was why he returned to his fallen foe. Long forgotten now was the once quiet kinship found. They watched as the boy loomed over the fallen Eton prefect who lay on the floor only half-conscious. Pulling aside his enemy's school blazer, he reached for a golden and crimson badge that was fastened to his grey sweater vest. The fabric on his school uniform ripped as the boy yanked the badge that was pinned against his heart. There was a moan of protest from the prefect, hands weakly reaching up to stop the indignity.

But the boy didn't look down, only up. There he held aloft the membership badge of the most senior member of "The Bells and Trials Hellfire Club" facetiously, as if he were holding the severed head of the Imperial Court's own champion. His angry eyes glaring wrathfully at Lord Grantham himself as, tauntingly, he showed the sacred badge to his grandfather. It was a powerful item in many circles, a mark of honor for whoever wore it. It meant that one was of impeccable breeding and prestige. It was a distinguished and vaulted symbol that was coveted not only in Eton, but also in many of such hallow academies. Long had Lord Grantham, since being the inaugural wearer of such a badge, dreamed that a son or grandson would have such a thing of honor in his keeping at such an age. But instead he could only watch as dream and nightmare mingled into one. His boy, his only boy, had in possession the badge, but he hadn't earned it through excellence of athletic and social prowess. Instead, he had taken it off a gentleman he beaten bloody in a fight and made a show of keeping the sacred item to Robert and Eton itself as a trophy. The boy made a show of tossing it up in the air, catching it, and then slipping it in jacket pocket, all while never looking anywhere but at Robert. There was no knowing what to do at such an indignity suffered to the club and the Earl of Grantham. The older man wanted to explode into fits and torrents of rage filled cries while he wept in despair of such a world that he now lived in …

A world he created in a moment of weakness of placing blame of his granddaughter's senseless death on a child who tried and failed to save her.

After slipping the badge into his jacket pocket, the boy paced fearlessly toward the crowd. Almost by instinct the non-familial members of the spectators backed away. It wasn't that they necessarily were afraid of a young boy, but there was something elemental about him that they did not want to stand in the way of. There was a power in the youth, it was in its infancy, but in time there would be a gravitas that would be hardly ignored when the steel was shown in cerulean eyes. But now, with all things accounted for, there was one last piece of business to attend. And that business stood stalwart and defiantly in front of him. When the crowd stepped away from the boy there was but one single white and blue pillar that refused to budge. Lady Mary was wrathful in her cold beautiful face as her eyes trended down toward the young boy that still only came up to her bosom. It was then that both boy and woman, rebel and gothic queen came toe to toe, matching steely looks only inches apart. Their breath stinging one another's face.

"You've got something that belongs to me." The kid said sternly.

There was a look of arrogance in the slight head tilt that the lady in white gave the boy. It was a bitterness and condescendence in the aloof roll of her eyes of the tiresome lad in front of her. But when she looked for support all about her, a slow disheartenment came when she had none. Her sister, her best friend, and even the other courtiers seemed set against her. Then, feeling her back to the wall, the woman only hardened her heart rather than acquiescing to the mood of the room. The look of defiance that she gave the implacable young kid was suddenly fierce in her amber eyes. She gave no response, no comment, only held her head high and turned her face, treating him as if he didn't exist.

"Mary, for God sake! Enough! Give him what's owed!"

The woman looked rather rancorous at Tom Branson who was in no mood for her theatrics. But she found that while he was the only one who had spoken up, the others once more didn't support Mary in her prideful resistance. She began to realize that her defiance, her attitude of confronting the boy as if he were some robber or invader into her home demanding and attacking, did not have the effect she thought it would. While, no one could accuse the peerage of supporting the rebel, the idea that Mary was so bitterly and passionately defiant only made her look villainous and irrational from the outside. Furthermore, the idea that Lady Mary Crawley did not pay her debts or agreed sums of contract due to personal bias seemed somehow miserly and dishonorable. Indeed, the sentiment of throwing a tantrum in defeat, of never giving into someone, being that a child, your own child moreover, showed a level of weakness of character that was unbefitting of an Adult, much less a Grand Lady of the Imperial Court. Seeing the tide of society turn against her, the woman had no choice but to pay the highwayman's fee for her own humiliation. Mary simply, grudgingly, turned and nodded to Carson who stood behind her. Whatever could be said about her, it would not be by her hand that such a ransom would be delivered.

Mr. Carson stepped forward from the back of the room. When he came up to the boy, there was the gravest of reluctance in his sharp featured face. The big man, then, reached into his livery and pulled from the lining pocket a fold of notes written in pounds. For a moment, holding onto his beloved mistress's money, the man sighed in deep misgiving. But when he looked down there was an authority to the boy that he could not deny. And though the old butler thought a scolding was due, he long conceded that was the family's business. Then, with a greater cringe of stained honor, the toweringly large and imposing man of the gentlest hearts and sternest of upper lips handed the fold of Mary's money over to the young adventurer. For the tarnished return of all of Lady Mary's used and thoroughly sniffed silky and satin knickers there was paid ninety-six pounds. The boy then turned, looking long and hard at Lady Mary, before he then began to count the notes. This action alone, incensed Mr. Carson who felt that not only was his honesty, but more so, his Lady's honor called into question. In such an outrage, Charles Carson felt that there was plenty of things that the old man wished to say to the young master. A boy that was so beloved downstairs that to continue to employ the house staff seemed treasonous to his Lady Mary. Instead, he felt compelled to speak out in defense of old Lady Violet and Lady Mary.

"You, sir, have not a shred of honor." He stood at attention, still giving the boy the respect that his birth entitled him.

The young swordsman who had stood alone against an ancient evil to defend a helpless maiden. The figure who saved the mighty chieftain hunter of the Imakandi tribe from the great bear Lion with only a tribesman's javelin. A young fighter who protected the honor of the High Commissioner and Plenipotentiary of the Far East's Illegitimate daughter from being taken by "The Devil Doctor" into his harem. The one who stood in challenge to the cruel White Ape warrior who had come to claim the kingship of _Kukuanaland_. And a young man who was the only one that one fateful Christmas Eve morning that tried with all his might to save a baby sister when the adults of the house faltered into despair. That same young man slowly looked up at the old butler with hardened eyes that carried the ghosts of many an adventure unspoken. It was then that Charles Carson saw that there was something different about the young master that made him realize he had misspoken gravely.

"No …?" the boy acknowledged as he continued to count the money. "Men are fought with honor." He folded the Pound notes, satisfied with the number. "Mad dogs and slaves get neutered." There was darkness to his hardboiled voice that was but the phantom echo of the old Sikh Corsair in his apprentice's voice.

Then, the boy paused. He turned back to the crowd. His eyes slipped to a tear strewn figure that stood behind her parents. Sybbie was motionless, catching his eye as he stood with a face half shadowed in the darkened overcast afternoon. It was then that they realized that he was waiting for her to come with him, to leave this place and these people.

The girl felt incredibly cornered by every eye that had found her standing there. With all her heart she wanted to go with him, her best friend, the boy she loved. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Sure, she had her problems with him. A part of her was angry at such a spectacle he had made of the whole thing. She was unsure how she felt about the fight, other than she didn't really like it. Lord Warren seemed like everything she wanted in life at the moment. He was so worldly and sophisticated, the way he said things made everything seem so important, so meaningful. Her best friend was also educated, and he really had traveled the world. But he wasn't anything like the Earl of Warren. He didn't understand why people talked like the prefect, it wasn't the way that most people in the world talk, and surely wasn't the way that Kings, Emperors, and Chieftains talk like … and he should know, he had met them. To the boy, the only people who talked that 'flowery bull' like the Earl were people who were the very opposite of what they wanted you to think. It was a lot of complicated nonsense to say nothing, as he would say. But it wasn't so much the nonsense, as it was how it made her feel to hear it.

The truth was that people only barely let Sybbie into their high society world, because, she was an heiress. Tom and his daughter were a part of the 'Nouveau Riche', having made their fortune in Motor Shops and then auto manufacturing. Everyone always assumed, by being the daughter of a once poor Irishman, that Sybbie was rather a hayseed with the most expensive clothes in the room. People seemed to only like her for the fact that her daddy had money and that her adopted Mama was the immaculate Lady Mary Talbot. She was beautiful, rich, and the heiress to both shares of her parent's motor company. And the girl was so desperate to be one of 'the club', to be accepted by high society as something more than a prize to be caught when she was of age. People were nice to her, always, and boys, in particular, seemed to do whatever the young beauty told them too. But she never felt that anyone took her serious. This, alone, plagued her nonstop with issues of her self-image. Thus, the girl was split always from what she wanted and who she was.

Sybil Branson was an heiress, beautiful and elegant. A girl who attended fashionable teas, was the talk of Luncheons at high end restaurants in London, and who charmed the King and Queen with her Gaelic blessed angelic singing voice. Sybil was the girl who was introduced to society by Princess Mary, who invited her and her daddy to tea all the time. She was the fashionable and enchanting young thing that sat by her mama's side at London fashion week. She was the gossip of dowagers and titled ladies who wanted her for their sons, always besieged by dashing and handsome young suitors trying to make impressions that lasted. Sybil Branson was simply the most talked about and popular young girl in high society.

Sybbie Branson was the joy filled, spoiled rotten, and firebrand troublemaker that lived to love her family. At all times she could be found sneaking away to Crawley House just to be with her best friend. The next morning, Isobel did not even blink to find the beautiful young thing in nightgown cuddled so desperately close her grandson as they slept in his bed. She was a girl that defended Marigold to the last, who loved her like a sister, and thought of her as the greatest treasure in the universe. On Fridays, Sybbie Branson could be found with a young adventurer and their family's ward going to the cinema to watch a picture show. The girl frowned on by audiences at the London stage for being the only one to laugh hysterically at the terrifying and horrific spectacle of venerable stage actor's transformation from Doctor Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. While, next to her, her best friend was unimpressed … having seen the actual man transform into the hulking, foul mouthed, hairy, and absolute degenerate beast several times. The girl always caught the Saturday morning serials at the cinema with her best friend, never failing to bring her toy ray gun and galactic princess crown. Sybbie Branson was a girl who loved to take apart and rebuild machines, designing her own in her collection of private little notebooks that no one but Marigold and her brother were allowed to see. A girl who dreamt of building amazing and fantastical machines of the future as much as she wanted to be a fairy princess.

And it was when her best friend stood by the door and expected the girl that he loved to come with him, that the great dilemma was set before her. In front of the entire Royal Court she was supposed to choose. Would she be Sybil or Sybbie? Would she condone the beating of her suitor or show loyalty to their mama? Would she do what she felt was right, and take his hand? But she also knew that if she did that, then there would be no Sybil Branson any longer. She would be ever known as Sybbie, the hayseed pretender. She wanted, with all her heart, to go to the boy … but loving him had been and would always be dangerous for her reputation. She thought it incredibly unfair to be put here. The adventurer she loved more than anything never seemed to think of anyone else! To him the choice was easy. And he never cared about what other people thought about him, the things he liked, or the people he loved. But Sybbie was afraid that it was all she thought about, especially as she got older. She liked being Sybil, she liked the clothes, and the attention. But she couldn't have that if anyone found out that she loved him, that she was Sybbie.

"Oh, my love, look what they've done to you!"

The girl wanted to die at the look that found her from the door as she exclaimed theatrically. Something fell, shattered, in the young explorer's eyes when Sybbie rushed forward and fell at the Earl of Warren's side. For a long moment, the boy watched as his best friend in the world cradled his enemy. For a pause their matching eyes locked from that small space between, and he saw the anger in her. It was an unspoken demand that he go away. That he had made everyone upset, that this was his fault, and that no one wanted him here ... especially her.

But in that moment, he didn't see his sister, his twin, his best friend. He saw the weakened woman frothing her last breath, her brows and long raven curls crusted by ice as she shivered in his arms. A woman that he had tried so hard to save but had failed. It was just one more accusation put upon him for what he couldn't do. And there were almost audible sounds of a valiant heart cracking at the look the girl gave him. There was no one on his side in that room. They all stood by, allowed him to be persecuted and accused. But the loss of Sybbie was the nail in the coffin. In the eyes of everyone, the boy was the villain, the bad guy of the piece. No matter what he did, there would always be something wrong with him, he would always be in the wrong as far as everyone was concerned. Mr. Carson had been right …

There was no honor found in what had happened here today.

But as he passed his fallen foe and the girl he loved; the boy unfolded a note with a flick of a finger. From his hand, as if tossing trash into a rubbish bin, he flipped the loose note at the Earl of Warren's dust imprinted chest and Sybbie's cradling figure as they curled together on the library rug.

"Stitches are on me, _Precious_."

There was a cold rancor in his voice. The crowd and his family watched him walk toward the glass double doors that led out to the gardens. He passed his Granny without a word or acknowledgement as she continued to look out the window with her back to the crowd. However, when opening the glass door between cherrywood refreshment table and Lord Grantham's desk there came a voice.

"Wait!"

The boy had turned to go, slipping out the glass door, his pack jangling as he hitched it up on his shoulder. But then a familiar voice caused him to halt. Everyone in the room turned when a small figure bounded from around the corner of the other side of the library where she had been hiding behind a column. She was a girl that was by far the youngest of the children in the house. Yet, to see her so suddenly in a white linin and lace sun dress, with golden hair that glinted and glimmered as if sun and moon light had been caught and mingled in the net of her long tresses, the entire library was placed under a spell. For some it was as if some angelic girl from a romantic and classical masterwork had escaped the canvas and was made flesh by God himself. She was slender and lithe, with fine and smooth porcelain skin. Every move she made seemed poetic, plotted, like some opening act in a divine ballet. Even for one so young, there was talent in her very controlled and precise physicality. In time, the girl would be considered one of the greatest Ballerinas to have ever lived. But for now, she was simply a young little girl with tears in her _**emerald**_ eyes, and a pretty little porcelain dolly under her arm.

The lovely creature, elven fair, was Marigold Drewe. She was the illegitimate daughter of Lady Edith Crawley and her once beloved publisher Michael Gregson. But of this there were few that had such a knowledge, and surely not the guests nor the children. The girl had been hiding half the afternoon downstairs, comforted and encouraged by the staff that was much more like family. Each had taken her upon their knee, wiped her tears, and cuddled her fiercely, for her heart matched her beauty, and love for the girl came easy from grown-ups.

But from children, it was another matter entirely.

And always she was reminded by jealous girls, and boys who tormented her when unable to process feelings of infatuation, that she was not some high and mighty Lady of noble birth. Often it was thrown in her face rancorously that young Marigold was nothing but a family-less foundling. That she was probably some terrible changeling child picked up by the dowdy Lady Hexham who had been so desperate for a child of her own that she'd take some 'troll's trick'. But to these insults the girl did not fight back, fore she didn't know how. There seemed to be ever a quiet anxiety in her expression that made her slow of wit in nastiness, and from a nature of gentle kindness she wished not to sink to their level, nor hurt a soul. Thus, she ever fled from the cruel mockery or otherwise allowed the fierce hearted Sybbie or the gallant young explorer defend and avenge her honor.

Together, her two best friends were her protectors, and under no circumstances would anyone be allowed to bully their treasure. For the two children remembered vaguely the heartache of their beloved aunt which longed for a perfect little girl on Yew Tree Farm long ago. It was then that they surmised that there must be something important about this little Marigold that they saw from time to time in the village with Mrs. Drewe. And when the young girl came to the Downton Nursery, not only was she received with open arms, but indeed with presupposed belief of the children that she was some great commodity that was special beyond all things in the universe. So it was, despite her tormenters from time to time, that Marigold knew only love and safety from all those around her. The beauty growing up fine and fair ever between her beloved two foster siblings who left her without need or want.

Yet, doom was set upon her from the very first moment that she was spied by a young boy that walked hand in hand with Anna Bates to Bakewell's one autumn morning. There a small boy, blonde curled, with flat cap and tweed jacket saw a little girl toddling by the flaming haired Mrs. Drewe. The girl tripped and stumbled on the sidewalk, but she was caught by a young boy who moved with the most impressive of reflex. Then, for a long time, the two young children stared at one another in familiarity, as if they had known one another for a thousand lifetimes before time began and a million more that stretched to the very end of the universe itself. The intensity and confusion of their shared gaze was wrapped in the electricity of their touch. Yet, even when Mrs. Drewe picked up the girl into her arms, thanking his little lordship, while Anna praised the gallantry of her small charge, the boy's quiet gaze followed the small girl who looked over her 'mother's' shoulder watching him till they disappeared around the bend.

It had been the first time that Marigold had met the young adventurer. And ever since then, if only by feeling, ignorant of anything else, both had loved one another. They knew not if it was a normal kind of love, something that they both felt for Sybbie, or if there was something special about this kind. It was primal, constant, and completely a part of some primal nature that seemed natural. They talked about it sometimes when Sybbie wasn't around. Neither one really knowing what it meant, or if that meant they would get married someday. But the boy, tired of ambiguity in life, would only say to the beautiful young angel with stalwart gallantry … _"I don't know what it means, or what it might be, only what it is ... and if its love, then I love you, Marigold Drewe."_ Then, the girl would smile enchantingly, giving a peck to his cheek as they sat together hand in hand in the gardens. It was innocence found in the divine purity of the love of children. Yet, it remained the beginning of a long unwitting tragedy of impossible star-crossed love that would unfold in a long and slow cruelty that would be marked by many sorrowing years.

But still love it was in the gleaming heart of golden Marigold Drewe. And it was love of her that led the boy to fight so bitterly his foe who had tormented her that day. The girl had seen the whole fight, clutching her dolly, crying silent tears for every hit the boy she loved took, thinking it was all her fault, unaware of any other wickedness that perpetrated the bloody struggle. She hid from the sight of the grown-ups, never wanting to be the center of attention, afraid of the ridicule that someone like her would receive in the eyes of the greatest Lords and Ladies of the Imperium. But when she saw the boy she loved standing alone, being called a thief by Lady Violet, being labeled a little animal, she wanted to go to him. But still she did not budge. It was only when Sybbie, their best friend, their sister, refused to back him, that the girl was left with no doubt. For all her fear and misgivings about being under the public eye, she couldn't bear to see him alone. There was no hesitation when she stepped out from behind her column and ran to him. No one would stand by his side. Not even her Aunt Edith, who verbally fought his corner, but would not budge to fully support him in any other real way, at least not in front of everyone. So, sweet, shy, and timid Marigold felt that it must be her. Even if she was the only one, she would see that he wouldn't ever be alone as long as she drew breath.

The girl's immaculate golden hair bounced as she sprinted to the boy that stood in the gray of the afternoon. Everyone watched as she ran up to the blooded young kid and threw herself against him. If by instinct the boy caught the speeding golden comet, stumbling back a step at the force of her collision. The girl apologized profusely into his chest in tears. She was convinced that it was all her fault, and that if she was only smarter, faster in wit, that she wouldn't need him to fight all of her battles. But the boy only shushed the girl he loved, nuzzling her ringlets as he burred his face in her luscious locks that smelt of sweet pea and cherry blossom. They came together on the patio of Downton Abbey, cutting a suddenly enchanting silhouette against the gloom of the cold spring afternoon. The girl quieted under his tired hushes as he kissed her brow, and then they looked into each other's eyes.

The loneliness of the young boy. The terrible things seen in halls of stone at the bottom of the sundering seas, reflected in his cerulean eyes, seemed relieved, if only for a moment, in the cupping of his cheek of the young girl. He squeezed his eyes shut at her touch as a single tear ran down her cheek. Somehow the girl could feel it, the torment, the guilt, and the unhealed wound left in the place where a baby sister had once occupied in his heart. Slowly, the girl lifted herself to her tippy toes and pecked him on his cheek and nuzzled a fading sword scar on his cheek bone. Feeling a swelling of love filling him, something that had been missing much in his life. He laid his cheek upon the top of the girl's head, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as she tucked her head against his chest. The boy was taller, stronger, and tougher than the little girl he held. But in that moment, filled with doubt and sorrow, it was Marigold that he leaned on when it felt like the whole world was against him. And never once, shy, meek, and sweet, did the golden-haired beauty ever falter when he needed her.

Then, together, the two children walked away arm in arm.

When they were gone a long and deep silence fell over the Downton Abbey library. All eyes had been drawn to the now left open door to the patio. It had been there that others would later swear to have seen the visages of Sir Lancelot and Guinevere come again into the world. It was then, and only for a flickered moment, that even the shadow of some deeper and tragic love between the two children was conceived in the mind of their family. A flutter of a second in doubt as they puzzled in the night many long years from now of a baby with black curls and emerald eyes who whisked no mother, raised by a father who did not speak of her, ever. Then, and only then, cherishingly watching the babe nap on Lady Mary's bed did they think back to this very moment and wonder for just a bated beat of a heart if it was possible? But for now, it slipped mind and pondering as a slow and bitter sobriety took over the library.

"Heh … hehehehe … hahaha!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHOHAHO!"

It started like the small pebbles, crackling and clacking, that start a rockslide. The laughter came slow at first, but after a moment, as the silence continued, the chuckling became cackling, and then there was full on belly laughter that was painfully mocking. In fact, one might say, it seemed to be in the very face of all the courtiers and Princess Mary that stood there in the library. Slowly, all eyes were drawn to the figure of Martha Levinson who seemed to be possessed by some good and jolly spirit of a past holiday cheer. The red headed old woman clutched her stomach and howled to the ceiling bracing a hand on a confused, mortified, and insulted Dowager's shoulder.

"What, on Earth, is so funny, Pray I ask?" Lady Violet snapped at her counterpart. There were genuine tears in Martha's eyes as she only shook her head and pointed at Mary who looked on rancorously.

"I don't need to tell you how wholly inappropriate a time this is!" Robert suddenly snapped.

"Hell no!" The woman answered. "Which is why it makes it funnier!" She busted a gut.

"Have you no shame, Grandmamma?!" Lady Mary hissed.

"Shame?" Martha wiped away a tear. "In case you missed it, Baby Girl, that Cowboy just waltzed into your house, whipped your golden boy's ass, twice! stole all your panties, showed them off to your little royal book club over here, then made you pay him for it! So, unless you're blind, the kid just walked out of here with all your money, all your self-respect, and the prettiest damn little girl in the entire world … and you think I'm the one who should be embarrassed?" Martha howled in mockery.

"Hey, Your Highness …" The old woman called over to Princess Mary. "What's the proper British word for looking like a good goddamn fool in front of the royal person?" She questioned. There was a sudden explosion of muffled outrage at such 'barnyard' talk directed at one of the Royal Family.

"'Right Snookered', possibly?" Princess Mary answered, actually entertaining the question thoughtfully. This only made the gothic beauty seethe more at the gleeful laughter at her humiliation, added to by Royal pondering.

Martha sashayed up to her Granddaughter. "You know, in ancient days when incompetence at such a grand level like this was reached, usually the Roman General had the dignity to fall on their sword. And in Japan, a Samurai would ritualistically commit suicide via their broken Katana." She explained in passing. "I'll ring downstairs and see if anyone can dig you up a pistol." Then, the old woman tauntingly clapped Mary across her tight silky bum with an audible smack as she laughed herself out the library door, chomping on an unlit cigar that she just happened to find ...

Because, of course she did.

"I … I shouldn't worry, my dear." Suddenly Lady Violet spoke. "The Japanese are so much more ceremonial than even us. It would be at least four weeks before anyone expected any progress to be made." She assured Mary.

"Not now, Mama …" Robert sounded incredibly cross, and not just at Martha. It became immediately clear that the Dowager Countess was very much in the crosshairs with one dark look from Cora.

As silence overcame the library again it became clear in Martha's harsh words that they all looked incredibly ridiculous in that moment. Indeed, to ponder the choice in the decisions made to allow such a thing to go on was sheer humiliation. It was these words coupled then in the show of Marigold's stalwart and golden heart that things were made ever clearer. Fore, it was Bertie Pelham, long ago, who spoke against his mother in some moral quandary. There he proclaimed wisely and justly that if Marigold was against it, then it must be wicked. To the loving and adoring stepfather of the House of Grantham's ward, from the mouth of babes came unfiltered truth, and from their innocence right was made crystal and clean. Thus, it seemed simple to many of the Crawley family that if dear and sweet Marigold, alone, stood by the boy's side … then they all were inexorably wrong in whatever folly was perpetrated here today.

And no clearer was that seen in the fallen and heartbroken face of young Sybbie Branson who still looked out the glass door of the library, knowing in that instant that she had made the wrong choice.

"It's going to be okay … it's okay …" The young beauty's voice shook as if comforting herself more than her beaten suitor. Gently she mopped his bloody brow, touching him with the same gentleness, yet with only half the heart of the angelic sincerity of her little sister. But at her touch, something stricken into muddled fog regained a clear eye in the Earl of Warren. And when he saw the beautiful young girl with roses in her ringlets and silk in her touch above him. He was filled with wonder and enchantment, before a bitter humiliation consumed all whimsy found in her arms.

"Get …!" A snarled and nasally disgust left his lips in a sudden and violent rage. "Get away from me!" His voice was shrill and high, shoving the girl in the chest, sending her onto her back. Quickly Tom moved to her, but the girl went back in confusion. This couldn't be possibly how he would act? No one acted like this to her. Moreover, this couldn't be it, this couldn't have been who she chose over her best friends, the man she betrayed the boy she loved over. So, with grit, the girl reached for him again.

"But it's me … it's me!" She begged.

Yet, the Lord of Warren was fully and 'damn well' aware of who it was. She was the girl that he had been falsely promised, a girl he once was so sure he'd marry. Now she was more beautiful than ever, more appealing than any girl her age had a right to be. But she was lost to him. It wasn't only that Lady Mary had led him astray. But now, even in the way that she looked at him, he only saw pity in her blue eyes. From this elegant girl of sapphire fair, he only saw the look of a young thing who finds a wounded small animal at the side of the road. No longer was he the worldly and sophisticated chap, champion of Eton. He was now a 'poor baby' that had been beaten and systematically broken down by an inferior foe who not only showed that he was a better fighter, but also was so much smarter of one than he ever was. Lost was the masculine strength and dominance that was admired the world over. Now he was a ridiculous and pitiful creature that young and beautiful heiresses cuddle like a half-drowned pup they found on the swollen riverbank. And for that, the boy would hate Sybil Afton Branson forever.

"Get away from me!" He roared at the suddenly stricken young girl. "I will not have some Chauffeurs daughter pity me!" The boy reached out and shoved Sybbie again, but harder. "Filthy little harlot!" He wheezed. "I don't need you, or your love!" He gasped. "I hate you!" He snarled.

"Sir, I dare say that's quite enough!" Robert said with anger and authority.

"I hate you …" He bore down on the sobbing young girl who looked frightened and deeply devastated. "I HATE YOU!" He climbed atop the young girl, pinning her down, and roared hatefully in her teary face that she covered in a deep shame.

Suddenly, violently, the boy was seized and tossed to the side roughly where he screamed in pain as he landed on his broken ribs. The look on Tom Branson's face was pure murder. To think of the day that one of the Peerage would act in such a vile way to Sybil's little girl was always a possibility. But then the man knew that any such act would be a death sentence for both her accoster and himself. Fore Tom Branson would kill a man for such a transgression against one who he loved more than anything ever made, spoken, or conceived in the whole of an infinity of time. It looked as if Tom was at war with himself, using all his power to control the urge to murder the boy where he lay. The sobbing girl that he guarded was suddenly scooped up in Mary's arms where she held her tightly to her breast, kissing her brow as she sobbed into her mama in such shame and humiliation.

"Enough!"

Lady Grantham's voice was like a gunshot that stilled the air. She whirled around with a look of madness in her gleaming blue eyes. She slammed a fist on the refreshment table and turned to Mr. Carson and Mr. Bates who had just arrived, having been informed of a brawl in the Library. "Get him out of here!" She ordered the senior male staff members. "I don't care where, as long as he is out of my sight!" Her voice was like a crack of a whip that bites deep into flesh.

"Alright, Your Lordship, on your feet!"

Mr. Bates grabbed the Earl by the back of his uniform blazer and dragged him off roughly and unkindly. Meanwhile, Mr. Carson, with one swift pull, got the youth to his feet. The sudden rush of pain caused the beaten Earl to seize up from what one might have seen as an angry motion. At that moment he was steadied by both men, while suddenly, having appeared from the crowd, Thomas Barrow paced up. There was something rough about the way he grabbed and pulled the youth to him. His grip was like a vice and anyone with a good eye could see that the dapper young butler was practically glimmering with venom in his eyes. He turned to Lord Grantham who was not at all pleased with the beaten Earl for what he did to his granddaughters.

"Take him downstairs and call for the ambulance … I believe that a stay in a York Hospital is due for Lord Warren before he returns to Eton for the foreseeable future." Robert announced.

"Very good, Your Lordship." Mr. Bates said with a nod. Together, the three male servants practically began to drag the once proud fosterling of Downton Abbey across the floor as if taking a prisoner to the dungeons. But as they passed, Edith stopped Bates and Thomas with a touch of her hand on their shoulders.

"I was wondering, we wouldn't wish to be unhospitable to our former ward, would we?" She asked cryptically. Both Thomas and Mr. Bates exchanged a look before turning back to the Marchioness.

"No, we wouldn't at that, Your Ladyship." The pleasant faced Thomas stood a little straighter, as if giving an interested ear to Lady Edith.

"Yes, well perhaps, you might be good enough to … _clean him_ _up_ a bit before the ambulance arrives. He does look rather gruesome with all those gashes and his nose broken … perhaps a little first aid wouldn't be missed?" She hinted and implied her way with ever a vengeful and poignant look hidden behind hospitality. This time when Barrow and Bates shared a look there was the ghost of a grin between them.

"I was an amateur boxer in the Army, Your Ladyship … I know something about setting broken noses." The valet had a darkness in his subservient voice.

"Yes, and I learned quite a bit from Lady Sybil at our time in the hospital … I might find some things he might need in the storerooms." Mr. Barrow was grinning pleasantly, genuinely happy to have a turn at a brat and bully that had been a long time coming for many of the Downton Abbey Staff.

"Not to worry …" Mr. Carson said. "His Lordship will get exactly the care he has earned." There was just a twitch of his expressive grey eyebrows. "Leave it to us, Your Ladyship." Carson nodded with a look of ambiguity as he and Barrow began to drag the seething and agonized youth out of the library. Their gaze followed the servant's exit till the door closed with a dignified clap. Then, suddenly they found that half the Imperial Court, including the likes of Princess Mary and Lady Bagshaw now stood in the completely wrecked library covered in dust, desks overturned, and food and drink stained on the floor. About them, an enraged Irishman was still trying to collect himself, haunted by the aggression of seeing his little girl bullied so cruelly. Mary was still cherishingly cuddling Sybbie who sobbed into her breast in heartbreak. And their hostess now looked completely tilted, filled with anger that cracked her ever fair and lovely façade.

"Perhaps, Tea might be served in the Drawing Room, just this once … Lady Grantham?" Princess Mary announced awkwardly, though the warmth in her teardrop voice did much to temper the raw emotions. But Cora did not respond to the Princess verbally, she only held a hand up and motioned her approval with it. One might have been outraged for a simple Countess to respond to a Royal Princess in such a manner, but both Lady Grantham and Princess Mary did not seem to care.

"What a novel concept, Ma'am …" Lady Rosmund praised deftly in flawless social skill unrivaled.

"Yes, I believe that shall do quite nicely." Lady Bagshaw agreed with her cousin.

Robert, eyes troubled deeply, looked up. "If you like, Your Highness …" He double took at the guests from his daughter and granddaughter. Before he could even rally himself to scratch as host, Anna Bates peeled from the crowd.

"It is right this way Your Highness, M'Ladies and M'Lords …" She quickly opened the door again.

Then, in a slow and glacial pace, the courtiers began to file out. Their eyes darted at dust, food, alcohol … and blood that stained the small library of Downton Abbey. As they moved out silently, Anna curtsying to Princess Mary. But when her highness was gone, she looked up and caught her mistress's eyes. It wasn't wrath, nor was it support, only a crippling disappointment in the pretty woman's gray eyes that daunted Lady Mary's heart. Anna alone had warned her not to do this, to let go, but Mary did not, could not. Now things were worse than they had been when her baby had died.

"Not you …"

The Crawley family were about to depart with the rest of the crowd when the hardened voice of Lady Grantham made them pause. They all glanced around at one another not knowing of who Cora was talking too. Edith and Bertie were following the stragglers, Rosamund stood at the door with pleasant smile by Anna. Tom was still standing in the Library, chest heaving, palm buried to his brow with eyes closed. In that moment Lucy Smith had come to his side, the once Lady's Maid and now Companion to her mother, Lady Bagshaw, was gently touching Tom's shoulder in steady influence. Meanwhile, Sybbie was still clutching Mary in the middle of the Library. It was then that they all realized that Lady Cora meant all of them. No one of their family was permitted to leave the library. When she looked up, Mrs. Bates only nodded at the wordless instruction.

"I'll fetch Andy and the maids when you ring to clean the mess up … and I'll inform Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson to serve the Tea for her Highness and the rest of the party." The woman nodded, lingering only a moment, sorrow in her eyes at the open glass door.

"I'll take the helm …" Rosamund was dutiful and nodded at the small grateful look Cora and Robert gave her.

Then, there was a silence that was deafening as the lady's maid shut the door behind her. In that moment, Lucy wished that she had gone with Anna and Rosamund, feeling rather locked into a cage with a tiger.

No one said a word at first.

Suddenly, in the quiet, Sybbie broke away from Mary's protective embrace. Wildly she stumbled backward, yet still facing her mama. It might have seemed impossible, but indeed in the heartbroken and stricken look that the raven-haired young girl gave Mary, the cold woman's heart gained a deep hairline fracture. Sybbie was hiccupping breaths, her chest heaving just like her father, as she searched her mother's eyes.

"I don't … I don't understand, Mama!" The girl cried. "I don't … I don't … you said he liked me!" She gasped in overwhelming emotion.

Amber eyes fell in pained sympathy. "My darling …" she started.

"You said that I should spend more time with him … you said, you said that we would get married!" Her eyes went back and forth in her head as if reading memory files from the cabinet in her mind.

"Darling, that's not …" she began.

"Oh, Mary …!" Edith exclaimed in exasperation; her face twisted in pain for her beloved niece.

"I didn't say that!" the woman suddenly called out in argument with her sister. "At least …" She stopped herself from lying, taking a deep breath of shame. "Not exactly that …" She corrected.

"Yes, you did!" Sybbie squealed. "You said that, you said it would be like a fairy story!" She sobbed. In that moment Lady Mary Talbot remembered what it was to be her daughter's age, to be told one thing, and hear another. For such a vivid and romantic imagination to run wild. It had not been, exactly, what Mary had said. But to a young girl on the cusp of her tweeny years, it would be exactly what they would hear from the mouth of their mama.

"Why?!" Tom Branson was perilous as he turned to his sister and co-parent of his daughter. His eyes were misted with angry and sorrowful emotions. Ms. Smith clutched his arm, her dark eyes glistened with confusion, but calm headedness as she studied her cousin timidly.

"I …" Mary sighed and shook her head. She suddenly realized that she had never spoken aloud her wicked plot. Then, something stubborn was shown and a deep frigidness came over her. "I don't need to tell you." She began.

**GRANNACK!**

They all startled when Lady Grantham slammed the glass door shut that their children had walked out of. "No …" Lady Cora finally spoke. A look of wrath, more potent than Mary had ever seen upon her mama, consumed the Countess. "But you will tell Sybbie." She ordered. "You owe her the truth!" She began.

"I hardly think …" Mary stumbled over her words with a shake of her head.

"Yes, I believe you're right." Bertie interjected in insult. "I don't believe you've thought of anything, frankly." He said angrily. Mary, feeling suddenly surrounded and cornered like a hunted beast, opened her mouth to respond to her brother-in-law.

"Tell me what?" Sybbie asked in a whisper. "What's going on?" She asked teary eyed.

Mary opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned pleadingly to Lord Grantham who seemed older than she had ever seen her beloved papa. But she found no support from him. Instead she was faced with a look of terrible disappointment that nearly brought her to her knees. She could handle his wrath, his indignation, but not the tired betrayal in his eyes. He did not need to speak for her to understand what he wanted of her. There was no defending Mary now. All those years of scheming, play acting, and never once did she think that she would be faced by her family, by her daughter, her little girl. Lady Mary never thought that she'd have to explain herself to the one person in the world that she had left that was still her own.

"Darling, I …" Mary came toward her, crouching to her eye level. Her voice was soft, understanding, but she couldn't hide the shame in her eyes as she took the little girl by her hips. "I didn't …" She began to shake her head.

"No …" Sybbie said in a whisper at first. "No, no … nohoho!" She tried to back away from Mary. It had dawned on the girl that her mama had lied to her. That much like a cruel bully that Sybbie feared every time she was invited to tea in London, she had been tricked, humiliated, in front of everyone. But this time, it wasn't a girl her own age, jealous of her beauty, her fashionable clothes, or her parent's money. It had been her own mama, the woman she loved most in the world, who she wanted to be like with every breath she took. It had been her hero that had made her look a fool, who had played a cruel trick on her.

"Darling, come … come here, no, listen to me!" Mary tried to get her back, but Sybbie continued to backway. Tears watered the grand lady's eyes as the girl's beautiful face scrunched up as new tears began to fall.

"You lied, you lied to me!" She sobbed. "You made me look stupid, in front of everyone!" The girl placed her fist to her chest backing away from an advancing Mary who was desperate. "No … no!" Sybbie slapped and pushed her mama away as the woman's hands attempted to pet her hair and grasp her hips. "You made me think that he loved me!" She screamed.

"Darling he does love you!"

"No! He said he hated me, that he would always hate me!"

"He's just mad, I promise you, he didn't mean it!"

"No, he does, he does mean it!"

"Listen to me, I swear to you, I'll make this right, I promise!" A tear ran slowly down Mary's cheek.

"Why?!" The girl squealed. "Why did you do that?!" She demanded. "Why did you make me think those things?" The girl begged her mama, truly pleaded in tears of to understand such cruel things visited upon her.

"Because, I …" She faltered a moment. "Because, I wanted someone to think something … to think something that wasn't true." She finally said it out loud. "I wanted him to think that … it doesn't matter, darling, because, I promise you that I love you, and I'll make this right." Mary was now on her knees. She suddenly realized in voicing such things, how terrible, how evil, it all sounded. It would be too far to do such things to grown adults, but to do this to children … there were no words to such tremendous dark purpose in deeds of wickedness

"I left him …" Sybbie sniffled quietly in the sudden realization of just who her mama was talking about. "He wanted me to come with him, and I left him! You made me hurt someone I love, you made me think wrong things so that I could help you hurt him! I betrayed him for a boy that hates me!" Sybbie cried, covering her eyes. "I betrayed my friends, because, you told me that he loved me, that we, that we … that we were going to get married!" There was something that was broken in the girl. For the first time a child of innocence came to understand cruelty. "But you did it to hurt him, to make me hurt him … but I love him." She pieced out with tears washing down her face. "I love him, and you made me hurt him, betray him and Marigold … so now he hates me, they both hate me … and I'm all alone!" The fierceness of the girl's sobs shook her body. But when Mary reached for her in pure maternal instinct, the girl darted from her. She ran blindly into Edith's arms, where the golden woman in pink silk clutched her tightly.

"Why must you torment the children, Mary?!" Edith shouted in anger as she picked the girl up as if she was the sweet babe she knew. "If you're so unhappy why not us, or Tom, or Henry? Why must you go after the children?!" She shook her head with a look of pure disgust. "Are there no bounds to your cruelty?!" She demanded, nuzzling Sybbie's head, while Bertie gently stroked the young girl's luxurious locks.

There was not a pain in this world that could aptly describe the sheer agony that fell over Mary in that moment. She thought back to the day of the cricket match, the last that Matthew ever played, the day their only child was conceived. The gothic lady in white remembered cradling the pink and mewling babe on her knees, rocking her back and forth. She didn't think she would ever love anything in the world more than that beautiful baby girl. But now, all these years later, she couldn't fathom having hurt such a perfect and pure creature so deeply. With all her will, she only wished to go back to then, to that one perfect afternoon long ago. But she couldn't, all she knew how to do now was hurt things, beautiful and perfect things. Did that day happen at all, she pondered? Or was it only a figment of an imagination that she was once Matthew's Mary. That there was a time that she was once good and filled with a selfless love for her children that she cherished above all things before her self-hatred and destruction supplanted them.

"Edith …" Cora spoke with gentle authority. "Take Sybbie upstairs, to my room, and ring for Baxter and ask her to pack my suitcase." The older woman instructed her middle daughter. "Bertie, it would be a large help if you would help supervise tea for the Princess and the rest of the guests." She nodded. Both Edith and Bertie looked at one another a moment. They had no idea what Lady Grantham was up to. But both did as Cora asked obediently, Edith still carrying the girl despite her age. But as they reached the door they were called back.

"Do you mind if I take Marigold with me for a few days?" She asked them.

Once more the couple shared a look. "Of, of course not, Mama. I'll pack her things." Edith frowned in confusion.

"Tom …" Lady Grantham turned.

"Take her, for the love of God … take her anywhere but here." Tom cut off.

His voice cracked and he was suddenly beside himself. Mary knew exactly what her partner and brother had meant. He wanted Mama to take Sybbie as far from Mary as possible, and she honestly couldn't blame them. Cora nodded as Tom and Lucy walked away to meet Edith and Bertie at the door. The big Irishman took his little girl effortlessly, and immediately the girl clung to him with new tears. While Tom whispered Gaelic words into his girl's ear, Lucy turned back, clutching his arm. Mary met her eyes and found sympathy in their forever gentleness. Their new cousin was a woman of warm heartedness who strove to understand Mary, rather than admonish her. There, the white lady saw the sorrow in the former lady's maid's brow as she alone understood that Mary's grief was in control and that the forlorn beauty was suffering greatly in her self-imprisonment of deep darkness. But even in her understanding, there came a slender white hand that touched a young girl's back protectively. Just because Lucy Smith understood Mary's pain, didn't mean that she wouldn't guard Sybbie from her mama's dark and terrible sickness.

When they were gone, there was only Lord and Lady Grantham that faced Mary and the Dowager.

Cora said nothing, only doing small tidying things, picking up tray, setting chair back that had been knocked down. The inaction, the silence, was painful to everyone but Cora, who went about, helping along the cleaning process in small ways. When the tension was too much, Mary finally spoke.

"Mama, I don't know what you want me to say!" She threw her hands out, a look of distress on her teary face. But still Cora did not acknowledge her daughter, which tore Mary's heart out.

"What in the world were you thinking of?!" Lord Grantham exploded at his daughter. But to even the fundamental question, a simple answer seemed out of her reach. Indeed, she found that she couldn't explain her wickedness, it was simply an impulse, a feeling that came strongly.

"I don't know … I just, I just wanted him to … remember." Mary scoffed in rancorous frustration at her inability to describe herself.

"Remember what?" her father snapped. "Remember all the reasons he is not here?!" Robert placed his hands behind his back and interrogated his daughter. "To remember all the reasons, he'll turn his back on this family! Is that what you wanted? BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT HE'LL DO!" He suddenly roared at Mary.

"Come off it, Robert!" Lady Violet stepped in. "It's already obvious he has as it is. He isn't one of us, and he never will be." She waved him off, not just Robert, but their 'supposed' heir. "Now, I've written to Murray in London and he says …" She began.

"I don't care what Murray has to say!" Cora suddenly broke in, her face a mask of no emotion, while everything in her body was rigid. "I know what Murray has said!" The woman was trembling. "You want to break up the Estate and rebuy the land with Mary's fortune from the Motor Company, that way the entail is smashed!" Cora countered her mother-in-law.

"What's this?" Robert said in shock at what he was hearing.

"Now, it's just an idea …"

"It's a scheme!" Cora seethed. "Mary and your mother want to smash the entail now that Mary has her fortune!" The woman explained to her husband.

"Mama, is that true?!" Robert rounded.

"I see that client privilege is more-or-less a guideline curtesy." Violet clucked.

Cora glared. "I'd like to remind you that Murray is our lawyer, Robert and mine. We hired him for the precise reason to protect us and the girls from your husband!" There was something dark and vengeful at the mention of the old Earl.

"Peace …" Violet spoke up, cowed suddenly. "It was I who suggested it in the first place, if you've forgotten." She pointed out. "As opposed to your own mother's unhelpful solution." She looked off wistfully.

"It was unhelpful." Cora agreed. "I needed her, the girls needed her, especially Mary." She pointed out. "And she couldn't help us from a hangman's noose for killing your husband!" She pointed out.

For a long beat Mary suddenly froze. And but once, in the memories of her Grandfather, a childlike fear and a deep shame overwhelmed her in memories, so many terrible and confusing memories of her tweeny years. The look in his eye as he beheld her in the soapy tub, as she lay back in bed after removing her nightshift so he could see her. The noises he made as he stood over her with his trousers around his ankles. The cadence of his wordplay in love letters written to her in secret that she was told never to show anyone. But most of all, the fear, confusion, and anger when she looked up from his petting of her soaked body to see Edith at the bathroom door with a look of horror at her naked sister being fondled by their grandfather in the tub. She swore, for the grief and trauma that came from Edith telling Mama what she saw, and Mama's fierce and angry actions, she would punish her younger sister forever for the upending of their perfect childhoods.

Yet, it was in the aftermath, two weeks later, lying in bed with Mama in Cora's childhood bedroom at their Grandmamma's mansion in New York, that was the first time she felt the anger, the darkness, that made her hate herself … because, she liked it. She didn't like being touched. She didn't like being forced to watch him 'play' with himself and then having to clean off her face, chest, and belly when he was done. But she liked the attention, she liked being written love letters, she loved the opulent presents, and she loved being worshipped. And now Grandmamma and Mama had told her what he had done was wicked and evil. Then, in the dark. she began to wonder if her liking aspects of such things made her evil. If she was wicked as well. Perhaps she was, and thus, she was indeed a bad person who should be punished. Yet, she couldn't tell anyone, so she must be her own jailer, her own judge, and never allow the evil inside her a moment's peace, always remembering that she was wicked.

The only time she hadn't felt that way was when she was with Matthew. The man she loved, who told her that she was not wicked, or evil, when she told him all of the incident. He convinced her that nothing her grandfather did to her was her fault, nothing. And for a while she believed it, finally healing and learning to let go. But after Matthew's death, she was plagued by the fear of it, that she was evil, that she was wicked, and that her husband had been killed, because, she had forgotten. Now, after the baby's death, after what she did to her own son, she would never be fooled into thinking that she was anything but a foul and loathsome creature who took pleasure from her grandfather's sickness and must be destroyed.

"The Estate is Mary's by right, Robert!" Lady Violet argued.

"No …" Lady Grantham snapped.

"No?" the old woman was flabbergasted.

"Mama?" The cold beauty looked hurt coming out of her stupor of triggered trauma.

The Countess rounded on the two women before her. "This isn't about Mary's inheritance, what belongs to her." She stalked up to Violet. "This is about disinheriting George!" She gritted her teeth. "You want to take his home from him while he is a child and vulnerable!" The woman accused.

"What?!" Robert had forgotten everything bad that had happened over the years and was once more a beloved Donk.

"That's not what we're doing …" Mary tried to explain.

"It is what you're doing … it's clear that you and Mama don't find him suitable for your taste and so you're stealing what is rightfully his!" Lady Cora argued.

"No one is taking anything from the boy, in time, Mary will leave him his due." Violet explained neatly.

"Yes, but only if he does and obeys what you and Mary tell him to do." The Countess sneered.

"Well, Mary being his mother, I would say that goes without saying for most families." The old woman cut.

"The title will still be his." Mary offered.

"Just not the house, or the land, or the Estate?" Robert listed off. "He would be a houseless, landless peer, beholden to a private owner." The Lord of Grantham looked sick at the very thought.

"Robert, be reasonable!" Violet appealed. "Look what he did today! He humiliated all of us! He stole Mary's underwear, put it on display, beat the Earl of Warren to an inch of his life, and stole important documents that could ruin this family!" The woman stamped her cane.

"He stole nothing!" Cora snarled. "He has as much a right to those things as any of us!" The woman raised her voice on the Dowager.

"He means to destroy us!" Violet matched her. "Everything we have, everything we've built …" She crowed. "He's pupil to the greatest enemy of the Empire! He speaks openly against the Royal Family! He calls them German Tyrants! Bertie said he punched the Prince of Wales in Africa!" There was something shrill in her outrage.

"I'm not sure anyone who knows the Prince would hold it against him on that scratch, Mama." Lord Grantham interceded with a look of levity. This did not amuse Old Lady Grantham.

"Robert, you've been Earl for near twenty-five years, do you want that animal to throw away everything you've maintained, that Mary struggles to maintain?" She asked.

"Mama …" Cora glowered angrily. "You call my little boy 'animal' one more time, and I assure you we won't be friends any longer." There was something petulant and girlish on the surface of the threat. But Violet Crawley knew better than to underestimate her daughter-in-law. Make no mistake, the beautiful older woman was the daughter of Martha Levinson, and if you were not her friend then you were her enemy. And no one wanted to be Lady Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham's, enemy.

There was a long pause, while Robert paced to the window as his mother lectured him. He looked out at the sloping wooded hill of "Spectacle Rock", at the ruins of the 'Old Fortress' barely visible in the distant gray afternoon. There was a deep pensive brooding in his eyes. His family, his love, it had all been built around this house, on saving it. When he was young their family had been a joke. The House of Grantham was a washed-out husk of nobility, huddled in a broken Abbey saved by Lady Margarete Pole and gifted to her Grandson the Viscount of Downton under the persecution of King Henry VIII and Cromwell. Robert had used his fame in Eton to rebuild their reputation, Cora's money to rebuild their stature, and his love of his family to rebuild a home worth more than all of the Royal Palaces. That was what was at stake, one man's lifelong legacy to do right by a name and a love built on this very land.

Then, to his everlasting shame, he doubted, and his heart hardened against his heir once more.

His wife did not need to hear him to sense the conflict that should never be there. "You're afraid …" Cora looked wildly at all three of them standing in the library. "All of you are afraid of one small child … why?! Because, he doesn't talk like you?! Because, he doesn't think like you?! Because, he doesn't find the same things important as you?!" The loving grandmother listed off in disgust. "So, he's different!" She shook her head in confusion. "So was I … So am I!" Cora argued. "Am I to be shipped off with him as well?" She turned to Robert. When he didn't answer, the woman grabbed her husband by the arm and turned him to face her.

"Is that what you want, Robert?" She asked.

The man grew fierce. "Of course not, my darling!" There was sincerity in his voice. "Where you go, I go, always." He attempted to kiss her hand. But she pulled it away from him.

"Then why is our boy so different? Why do you treat him like a stranger, some great enemy!" She demanded.

"You don't understand these things …" Mary began.

"Don't I?" There was an accusation in her mother's voice. Something cold slipped down her daughter's spine.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

There was an old pain in her cerulean eyes. "I'm not essential." She said.

"That's nonsense, Mama!"

"No, it's not!" Cora seemed suddenly emotional. "You have no idea …" tears brimmed her eyes. "No idea what was sacrificed bringing you into this world." She suddenly felt cold, as some dark secret was at the very tip of Lady Grantham's tongue about Mary's conception that had never been spoken of by the woman to anyone. "And you were taken away from me, because, 'I just didn't understand these things' … after all I did." Her voice cracked. "All your life you've thought me a silly and pleasant wall decoration, your papa's pretty dolly." The raven-haired countess accused. "You have never taken me seriously, and now you don't either of us, your father and I, as well. It has always been the two of you. Always Mary and Mama scheming in the corner, weaving webs." The tone of Lady Grantham's voice made her daughter suddenly so ashamed of herself in the picture it painted. "But I never said anything, because, I wanted you to succeed, to learn from the best. And all I've ever asked from you is your love and your loyalty. But now I must look to my own mistakes that I've made with you." She shook her head.

"There have been no mistakes!" Mary argued emotionally. "I love you, I truly do, Mama." She shook her head. "But …" She trailed off.

"I don't understand these things?" The woman threw the words back at her daughter.

"The honor of Downton, it must be protected, safe-guarded!" She shouted back.

"For who, Mary?" Cora asked facetiously. "You guard it against those who will inherit it, you make war on its future! My darling, who are you protecting Downton for?" She demanded.

But Mary found that she could not answer.

"This Castle is not important!" She announced.

"How can you say that?" Violet snapped. "It's been your home for twenty-five years!" the old woman looked completely lost.

"Because, I'm a mother!" She snapped. "Mary …" Her eyes fell into sorrow. "This is just a house. It's made of stone and glass. The things inside are just things." Her mother rationalized. "They're not who you are, who your father is, they don't define you." She grasped her girl's hands. "Your children are your legacy, they're who you are, what you put inside them, what you teach them. A house can be destroyed, can be taken from you, but your children are what lives on! If you have a problem with George, then seek him out, go to him, and try, and try, and try, my darling …" She shook her daughter's hands with each poignant phrase.

"Oh, Mama …" Mary scoffed, squeezing her eyes shut as she turned away from Cora.

"Mary, I tell you this, because, I love you …" She pursued her daughter. "And I tell you this, because, there is no other way." The woman suddenly became made of steel. Mary opened her eyes and turned quickly to find her mother looking at her with a glare.

"You won't back us?" Violet asked in staggered whiplash.

"Not in a million years." Cora said firmly. "The Fortune and the Estate goes to the Heir of the House of Grantham. Our Heir." Lady Grantham motioned between her husband and herself.

Both Mary and Violet waited for Robert to contradict the bold claim. But when the man turned around, they found someone who supported them in emotion, but in his true heart, he would never go against the love of his life. Thus, though Robert feared for everything he believed and held in pride, he made a forlorn peace with the way of the world and of fate. Thus, he took his place at Cora's side.

"Downton Abbey, The Estate, and the county goes to the Heir of the House of Grantham. Our Heir … George Crawley, your son." Robert was implacable.

There was a sudden sharpness in Lady Mary's eyes that was cold and terrible. Inside her there came a tearing of her heart. She had owned Matthew's shares of the Estate, but in the end, it was not the controlling nor owning principle. But moreover, it was not jealousy over the idea that her parents had chosen against her again, but despair that drove her. She took to heart her mama's words. And there was a time she might have believed them, lived by them. They might have even changed her life. But after today, after everything she saw and was exposed too, she came to realize that she had nothing. Her baby girl was dead. She had broken her Sybbie with wicked deceits. And then there was George … George Crawley, a valiant and beloved champion of the county who predicated his life on being the antithesis to his wicked and greedy mama in every way. It was then that Lady Mary Talbot saw that she had nothing, nothing at all. She had no legacy; she had no daughters …

"I have no son …" The words left her mouth coldly. "And I'd personally let myself be torn apart by wild dogs before I shame and humiliate this family before the King and God himself by giving Downton over to that savage, violent, vengeful little _animal_ of low cunning!" In the darkness of despair her love had turned to obsession which curdled in her heart to venom that poisoned her soul with the blackest hate. In her tar scorched insides, she would stop at nothing in that moment to destroy everything, all of it, starting with herself.

But when she glanced at Lord and Lady Grantham, her parents, they did not rise to her hateful words. There was only a sorrowful fall in their eyes. They had offered her a helping hand, they had offered her a reprieve from this hell of grief that lingered too long, like a deathly cold in an aged man's chest. But they saw now that the infection had run too deep. The damage was too great, a heartbroken too many times. On that day, in that hour, there was but a chance that all the wrongs done and felt might have been redeemed. But Mary had elected to discard that moment for peace. Instead, it would be war, to the death. Lady Cora's heart fell from her chest and a look of weariness overcame her.

Something sad and bitter came over Robert. There had been a time in his life in which an Earl of Grantham had once said almost the same words to his own son. In his dying hours, he told his son that it was his granddaughter who was the true heir, that Lord Robert Crawley, Viscount of Downton Abbey, was a buffoon, a joke of a man who married himself an American girl toy. He was no son of his, and that he only prayed that ruin would not favor Robert before his angelic Mary, 'the love of his life', could take control. They were horrible words, tinged in sickness, for the man truly believed that he was in love with his own Granddaughter, a girl of fourteen at his death. But he never thought, not in a thousand years, that he would hear that same vile hatred from his own girl's mouth. And for but a second, he pondered if there was a curse of madness in his family, that obsession and greed was mingled with fear of losing Downton. That perhaps it was this place the drove so many Lords of Grantham mad in their need of its splendorous halls. It was then that perhaps Sybil and George, the once outliers of this family, were the fortunate ones that took after his beloved Cora and her sentimentalities for people and not legacies or traditions.

"Very well …" Cora said after a long pause, turning to find that even Violet was not wholly onboard with the things that Mary had said. "Then it will be war." The woman sounded so incredibly sad and heartbroken. "We are taking the girls, and opening Grantham House in London for however long it takes for you to remember that you are our daughter, and you are a mother!" She announced. "Meanwhile, the house is yours, Mary. Since you and Mama believe that your father and I are useless. You run it, you manage it, and you claim to be the only one who cares for it." There was a lecturing tone. "Therefore, keep it … if you can." Cora nodded. "But I ask no one to stay with you, because, no one will." She was inches from Mary's face. "We'll see, you and I, just how satisfied you will be in an empty house filled with dusty heirlooms. Look to the quiet and forlorn days with your dragon's hoard of the Crawley family's many 'things' and 'stuff' that glimmer and shine, my darling. Fore, if you continue in this manner, that is all you'll have in the end."

Then, contradicting all body language and words spoken, she leaned forward and pecked Mary on the cheek with the greatest of love that a mother could for a daughter who means the very world to her. The sudden realization, the picture in her mind that her mama spoke of struck her as the woman gave one last stroke to her pale cheek, sad glistening eyes wishing that they could take all the pain and suffering from Mary's heart.

Then, Lord and Lady Grantham left, and finally the Dowager and Mary stood alone.

This was completely not what Violet had expected to happen. Somehow, she had always thought that even if Cora had her opinions, that Robert knew better. But now she saw that the same power and influence that Violet had once wielded had gone over to Cora. The once American heiress had become the quiet matriarch of the Crawley family. Of course, Robert and the girls had loved Violet in their own way. But she saw that this was truly Cora's family now. And after Maud Bagshaw, Rosamund, and Susan over the years, it was clear that cutting someone out of the family was a necessity. But under Cora's captaining, there was no one left behind, not ever.

When Sybil ran away with Tom, Cora immediately insisted that they come and visit as often as was possible. When Rose fell in love with Atticus, when she wished to marry the Jewish nobleman, Cora refused to disown her when Susan and her children did. In fact, the woman went so far as to adopt her as one of her own. Now Rose's daughter calls Cora Granny. So, Violet wasn't so wholly surprised that of the heir, her own grandson and ward, Cora would never turn against him. But the old woman was never fully prepared to hear the hatred in which Mary spoke of the boy. It shocked her to her core. Of course, the dowager was no great fan. In fact, she rather to fancy the thought of him going away on one of his adventures and frankly not coming back for many long years still. But she was not prepared for how much her granddaughter was filled with torment at the very thought of him.

She saw now that only such hatred came from an intensity of love that old Lady Grantham had never seen in her entire life. Not even she, as terrible to admit, loved her two children, her two stillborn boys, as much as Mary loved her one boy. It was like a slow septic wound that was spreading. And the more she needed him, wanted him, the more it ate away, till she hated him for how much it hurt. The fragments of the woman's broken heart were slowly inching through her body tearing to ribbons her very soul. Now, the pain of the loss of her children, her dead baby girl, her broken daughter, and her rival son, had made her vicious. She was like a kicked and tormented animal with their back against the wall, snarling and lashing at everything.

And Violet did not know how to fix Mary.

"I'm sure they'll be back … Your father has …"

"Enough, Granny!" Mary snapped, rubbing her forehead, eyes squeezed shut. "Go!" she threw her hand down against her thigh and rounded on the old woman.

"Mary!" She said in outrage at the dismissal.

"Oh, Granny …" She sighed. "I am to be punished for my wickedness." She announced pointing to where her parents left. "It would be cheating for you to stay when I am to endure my penitence." There was something mockingly theatrical about her words. "So, go, leave me be to my own devices!" She walked away. Violet watched her granddaughter for a long beat.

"Very well …" She sighed, limping on her cane. But as she passed the woman she halted. "But I'll be back to check on you later." She assured her.

"Why bother?" She asked petulantly.

The woman suddenly grew stern. "My dear, sometimes you worry me very much." With one sentence she said so many emotions that were swirling about in an ether of everything unsaid, and yet so strongly felt between the two women.

But her granddaughter did not say a word. The old woman limped toward the door and placed a hand upon the knob. But, then, she turned back pensively, worriedly. There she saw her granddaughter. She took her mother's place by the now closed glass doors staring out broodingly into the gray. Something troubled the old woman deeply about the figure that cut against the darkness of the shadows in the library. For the first time Lady Violet saw just how dim the light seemed to cling to Mary. The woman's shadow was translucent, barely there at all, and the dark cloaked her shoulders as a regal mantle. In the dull gray her pale skin seemed deathly and her eyes muted. A cold and pale shadow fell over the old woman's heart.

Here, she saw, unshakably, the true legacy she would leave behind.

* * *

In the great hall, Martha Levinson stood by herself, smoking Robert's cigar. Her eyes narrowed as she looked out the glass paned double doors that lead to the heavy oaken great gates of the gothic castle. Her mind cast adrift in quiet contemplation of all she had just heard and seen in the last twenty minutes of her shortening life. She was swimming in ancient texts, sunken continents, and magical princess that reincarnated into her great-granddaughter. The blinding fast hands of lightning that the kid fought with, and the bitter anger inside him. A steady stream of smoke sauntered from the lit embers at the end of her cigar as she quietly smoked, leaning against the doorway.

"Darling, it'll be okay … They don't hate you. They'll be back for you, I promise, they'd never abandon you … they're not like Lord Warren. Darling, they're so much better than that."

"I don't understand, I don't … why did she make me hurt him? Why would Mama trick me into doing that?"

"Listen to me, your mama is just …."

"She's damaged, Baby Girl."

Tom had set a still sobbing Sybbie back on the ground, she was becoming a bit too old and cumbersome to carry as he used too. She was still distraught over everything that happened to her. Edith, Bertie, and Lucy made a protective ring around their niece as Tom knelt in front of her, stroking away the girl's tears. But when Martha spoke out, they all turned, surprised to see her brooding figure, her green eyes lit by smoldering embers in the shadow. The woman only glanced at her great-granddaughter.

"People, they break when they endure too much pain, they do stupid things, and your momma is the queen of doing dumb ass things when she's hurt." She blew out a languid smoke ring, tilting her head up. The little girl quieted, and something touched the old woman when anger and sorrow was now tinged with sympathy in the girl's face. "Ask your Aunt someday." She nodded to Edith. The Marchioness opened her mouth, but then, with anxious eyes she looked away.

Sometimes they had forgotten that there was a time in their youth that their Grandmamma was a constant part of their lives. They had spent Summers in Newport, Thanksgiving in New York, and every other Christmas in her heiress palaces. She was a woman that didn't allow nannies or governesses in her house. Mama was expected to take care of her own children, and show that she could, or forever hear about it from her own mother who suffered 'no half-a-woman' to be in her gene-pool. But that also meant that they spent much of their time with the woman who always, always, had time for her granddaughters and gave them whatever they asked, telling mama to 'alright, shut up' when she complained. Thus, it was by no surprise that no matter how old they got, Martha Levinson knew Mary, Edith, and Sybil in and out. And was privy to their many faults, yet, somehow, still loved them in her own Southern American, hard ass, fashion.

"Look, Baby Mine, someone hurt your momma, a long time ago." Martha started. Tom, Lucy, and Bertie frowned in surprise and confusion at a story they did not know. Meanwhile, Edith's eyebrows hit her forehead and she gasped suddenly.

"Grandmamma, I don't think you should …" There was something timid in her voice.

"Yeah, yeah … shut up." The old woman stuck her cigar in her mouth, cutting Edith off. "I ain't drawing her a goddamn picture out here, Squints." She waved the girl off with a not so affectionate nickname that the elegant aristocrat hadn't heard in twenty-five long years. The woman puffed out smoke as she walked up to Sybbie.

"Like I said. Someone hurt Mary a long time ago, hurt her really badly." She began.

"Did they beat her up?" Sybbie asked, terrified for her idol.

"No, Baby, they did much worse." She explained. "They made her think things that weren't true, they made her think that she was a bad person, by confusing her with presents and promises she didn't understand." The woman blew out smoke. "So now she thinks that she's a bad person, and that she will destroy everything she touches, because, she made those promises and loved those gifts they gave her." Martha shook her head.

"But she's not a bad person …" Sybbie whispered hopefully.

"Nah, Baby, no … but she thinks she is. And she thinks that all the bad things that happened to her are her fault for being a terrible person. I don't believe she wanted to hurt you. She's just lost." The old woman nodded.

"She's lost?" The girl frowned.

"We all are, Baby. But when we got each other, we can feel our way around, you know what I mean?" she asked.

Then, there was a long and pensive pause from all in the group.

"No … not at all." The girl frowned.

"Yes, I'm not sure either." Lucy puzzled out.

Martha sneered with a chimney of smoke out of her maw staring at the group in front of her. "Screw it!" The woman scoffed in deep annoyance at her audience of morons. "Look it, Parents are people, same as everyone else. The difference is they put up with your insanity, because, on average, they love you. So best start storing your momma's shortcomings away like nuts for winter, Baby Girl. Cause, you just got lucky as hell. And I guaran-damn-tee ya you're gonna want that million-dollar insurance claim as reminder for when you screw up as royally as 'shit-for-brains' in there just did." The old woman jabbed Robert's cigar at Sybbie.

Everyone in the group stared with hard frowns at the old woman who began to walk away. It was a truly honest view on mother and daughter relationships, no one … no one could deny that. Tom had forgotten, and Bertie found it refreshing, that only Martha Levinson could look at the 'Blessed Queen Mary' of Downton Abbey and openly call her 'shit-for-brains' without pause or hint of irony. This was a reason that Edith loved her grandmother and feared her. Martha had a long memory, and just as she might have memorized all of the strange things that Mary did as a child, she was just as capable of remembering all the things Edith did as well.

Worse still, she was utterly convinced that they still did those stupid and odd things. And, without much thought, the absolute torment was that in their own ways, she was right to a certain degree. To be criticized by Granny was with a sting and a smile. To be criticized by Grandmamma was to feel about nine years old, and a complete idiot. Fore, in Martha Levinson's mind, all her children, no matter how old, were smarter than most. But they were all as stupid as they came when compared to her own standards. Edith could run a magazine, Mary could manage an Estate, and they both were still idiots who could scramble wireless signals with amount of metal in their numbskulls and the shit in their heads.

"We'll, uh, keep that in mind …" Tom frowned in confusion, taking Sybbie's hand.

"Oh, don't worry, you'll remember it in a few years." Martha sounded ominous as an oracle, having once raised a teenage girl herself. As Tom led Sybbie away, the old woman's wink woke a small and fragile grin from the sniffling little girl, who had no idea what her Grandmamma just said, but she liked the honey style of it.

"Well, I feel comforted." Bertie broke in awkwardly for humor. But his words got no response from the old woman who coolly blew smoke in his general direction, eyeing him suspiciously. The Marquess faltered slightly under gaze. Edith looked humoredly at her grandmother, smirking in commiseration to her husband.

"Go on, I'll see to Grandmamma." The regal woman in silk dress pecked her husband on the lips, placing a hand on his chest comfortingly.

"Right, the uh, tea." He checked his watch nervously, grinning at Martha.

The old woman just stared at him with Cheshire eyes. "You gonna go, or are you waiting till they call Q, R, and S's numbers first?" She asked flippantly motioning to the drawing room with her lit cigar.

The man frowned, then, gave a nervous laugh. "Oh right, how, uh, how clever … right." He then awkwardly retreated when Edith, with a pained sympathy on her face, motioned him to go discreetly. He gave a half-hearted goodbye to his grandmother-in-law and turned back, adjusting his jacket, he paced to the drawing room. Martha only blew a smoke ring in his direction and shook her head. When he was gone Edith glowered at her grandmamma.

"He only wants to make a good impression." She chastised.

"Shame really … you gonna tell him?" The old woman turned back to Edith.

The marchioness glared in lighthearted agitation. "Why must you be so difficult?" She sighed.

"Cause, If I wasn't, then you bunch of over-fancy dunderheads wouldn't feel like you accomplished anything if I gave it up to you for free."

But still, the old woman still placed an arm around her granddaughter with a tender love. The marchioness smirked endearingly, then, after a moment, seemed to melt in the embrace, leaning her head against the old woman's shoulder. Of all the granddaughters, Edith was the one who had received the most ridicule and also the most comfort from the woman. And after the entire episode, a little bit of that childlike comfort was needed.

"She's really done it this time, huh?" Martha said distantly.

Edith sighed. "I don't know what to do about Mary." She shrugged. "I tried to be her friend, I tried staying out of her way, and now I've found myself becoming 'The Great Wall of myself', standing between grandfather and the children." She said openly. There was a sudden tension in the air and Martha looked down at her cuddled granddaughter.

"You don't think Mary would …?" The woman asked. Edith, realizing what she just said, looked up.

"No, no, not like that …" but she paused and there was some hesitation of fear. "I meant the damage he's done to her. That woman in there, it's not Mary, not really. But, you see, Grandfather seems to have corrupted her, poisoned her mind. And when she's in pain, everything bad he did to her, taught her, comes out of her and she can't help but hurt everyone around her, destroy everything in her path." She explained.

"So now you're the old lady in the shoe?" She asked.

Edith smirked. "I don't mind, really …" Edith replied. "As you know Bertie and I, we lost our …" She trailed off. Martha kissed her cheek.

"It happened to me a few times, it's hard, but if you find the right man, you'll get through it, and try again till you get it right." Martha explained.

"The children, they helped a great deal after … after what happened to us." She nodded. "I, I don't know what I'd do without them." The golden-haired woman smiled wistfully.

"You love them."

"Oh, Grandmamma …" Edith exclaimed quietly. "Sometimes in the afternoon, I sit right there." She pointed to a futon in the great hall by the hearth. "And the children come and play, laugh, and nap." She smiled. "And I lay there, covered by sleeping little bodies, so innocent, so loving, and …" She seemed emotional. "And then I don't understand Mary, how she can throw even a single one of her perfect and good babies away." Edith shook her head with glassy eye. "I'd take all of them if I could." She whispered sadly, longingly, as she touched her silk covered belly.

"Must be a hell of a kid." Martha chimed in.

"Who?" Edith frowned.

"This heir everyone keeps talking about. Your Momma fights like she gave birth to the little guy herself. Marigold talks about him night and day. Sybbie spends most of her time with him. And Mary and Violet are scared shitless by him. Now, the way you tell it, you're drawing up adoption papers … it seems everyone in the county think the kid's 'the bee's knees' and all the jazz, but I ain't never seen this George Crawley." Martha shook her head.

Edith immediately pulled away from Martha, shrugging out of her embrace. The old woman frowned, removing her cigar at the odd action. On her granddaughter's face was a wild look of confusion, as if her grandmother had two heads. Martha crossed her arms, chomping the smoke as Edith searched her eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" She asked.

Edith looked puzzled. "Are you feeling well, Grandmamma?" the regal aristocrat turned her head slightly.

"No, not really, but then it's cold, gray, in May, and I'm in England … so is anyone?" The old lady replied flippantly.

"But you said you haven't seen or spoken to … George?" her granddaughter frowned worriedly.

"Was I supposed to?" Martha frowned.

"You mean to tell me that you don't know who that was in there …?" She shook her head with a slight grin.

"Know what?"

* * *

The Crawley Family Saga continues in …

**THE CREGGAN WHITE HARE**


End file.
